


The Kids in York

by aeroport_art



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Child Abuse, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Yorkshire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 03:21:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 46,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeroport_art/pseuds/aeroport_art
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cottingswood High, Yorkshire. You get all kinds, but as someone who's bounced around Child Services, has a hot-headed chav for a best friend, and gets mistaken for a girl by the daft new student in History, Esca MacCunoval is not your ordinary kid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Marcus is a Right Fockin’ Naff Who Needs a Hard Slap to the Face For Thinking ‘Esca’ is a Girl’s Name

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** The boys are 16/17 so while they're underage, the content is tame until the end. Esca deals with abuse from foster care parents. 
> 
> As with most things, this story was not done alone. [poziomeczka](http://archiveofourown.org/users/poziomeczka/pseuds/poziomeczka) and [ladytiferet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTiferet/pseuds/LadyTiferet) deserve a round of applause for their constant cheerleading in this small but awesome fandom, and it's thanks to their hard work in putting out the Sunday Service that this kink meme prompt ever caught my eye. Secondly, thanks to [acetamide](http://archiveofourown.org/users/acetamide/pseuds/acetamide) for the awesome Northern Brit-pick and tutoring in the English school system, without which this entire fic would've been horribly and painfully American! You ladies, as well as everyone who left comments and followed this story in its awful, hard-to-navigate WIP incarnation in the Sunday Service, completely rock.

"There's an open seat next to Esca."

 _No shitting way,_ Esca thinks, crossing his arms over his chest. He slouches low as he can go and gives an obstinate glare to Mr. Dorsen, who blithely ignores him as he ushers the new kid—some guy named Marcus, transferring from Rome, who's wearing bloody _Lacoste_ and khaki shorts that show his fucking knees because he's either an eight year old boy from the 1920's or the age of Esca's grandpa—towards Esca's row.

Goddamn it. The empty desk to Esca's left was hard-earned; after months of Ronald "I'm rugby captain and you're just a shrimp, Shrimp" poking and prodding at Esca's arm, flicking his ear or throwing spitballs to the side of his face, Esca had finally lost his temper and framed the shit-for-brains bully in a bit of vandalism to the headmaster's Maserati. Got ol' Ron suspended from school 'til the end of the term, which means that empty seat? Is Esca's. He won the window view to the schoolyard, fair and square.

Too late, though. The new kid's picking his way over, snagging his big feet on snaking straps of rucksacks, smacking Shirley Donaldson in the back of her head with a clumsy elbow, aiming straight for Esca.

Esca determinedly faces away. The rest of the class might be watching on like drooling morons, but Esca never does what everyone does. He's his own man, aye.

Behind him, he hears:

"Hi, Esca?"

Judging from the looks on everyone's faces, something's awry. Esca snaps around, only to see—

Marcus is trying to shake hands with Marjorie Haber, who he has clearly mistaken for Esca.

"Oi!" he barks.

Marcus falters, turning to the sound of Esca's voice.

" _I'm_ Esca, you fuckin’ naff!"

"Oh, I thought..." Marcus trails off, looking uncertainly at Marjorie again. She's giggling through her fingers, as is the rest of the class.

"Language, Mr. MacCunoval," the teacher wearily reminds him. Ent the first time. Won't be the last, neither.

"I'm Esca, you blithering idiot," he amends peaceably.

Marcus flushes, drawing a gleeful smile out of Esca. Serves him right, thinking Esca's a fucking bird. Fuck that.

The new kid swipes up his bag and moves down a row, squeezing between Esca's knees and the back of Harry Emerson's chair to claim the empty desk. He’s too big for it though, arms and legs spilling over like an overstuffed pie. An elbow catches the side of Esca’s head as Marcus settles in.

Esca goggles, appalled. Just stares as Marcus goes about unzipping his rucksack, pulling out a canvas pencil case and wide-ruled notebook. The class settles down, and Mr. Dorsen starts his lecture on the Thirty Years War. That's when Esca leans in.

"Psst."

Marcus twitches a bit, like there's a fly buzzing near his ear.

"Hey," Esca says, poking Marcus in the bicep with the rubber on the end of his pencil. "I know you can hear me."

"I'm trying to pay attention," Marcus says irritably. He has a funny accent, slow vowels and liquid drawl. Sure doesn't sound like a Mario Brother, or nothing.

Whatever. "You mistake me for a girl again, I'll end you." There. Suitably threatening, if Esca doesn't mind saying so.

Only, Marcus doesn't seem that threatened. He rolls his eyes and whispers back, eyes glued to the front of the classroom all the while, "Okay, shrimp."

Oh, that's it.

Esca is gonna _end_ him.

\-----

That is, if the rest of the boys in his year weren't trying to end Esca first.

"Eat shite, you pint-sized fudge packer—"

A foot makes its way into Esca's stomach, making him crumple to his knees, the grit of the tarmac digging through his jeans.

"You lost us our captain, you little shit," Kirby shouts. At least, Esca thinks it's Kirby, but the lot of them sound the same, don't they? Also, his ears are ringing.

"Yeah, well," Esca spits. Fuck, that's blood right there. "You lot haven't won a fucking match in years now, have you? So no great loss, yeah?"

Another kick makes a desperate attempt to unscramble Esca's intestines. Bloody ow. The concrete flies up to his chin, and Esca stifles a groan.

"Had enough, yet? For a four-foot wanker, you sure run your mouth off—"

Esca throws an arm out and snags the bottom of the closest trouser leg. A hard yank fells the footballer like a fucking Douglas fir.

" _Tim-ber,_ " Esca singsongs, even as his voice is faint and his vision's swimming with odd little bursts of fluorescent light.

After that's just a scuffle of noise, the cretins—how many are there, Jesus fuckin' Christ—go at him all at once. Esca's had the shit kicked out of him plenty of times; he makes up for his smaller stature with savage words, the combination meaning he's got to scrap his way out a fight on a regular basis. Can't win 'em all, neither.

The flashing lights behind his eyelids are gone now, he just sees red, just feels the dull, repeated ache of swift kicks pummeling him from all sides as he—

\-----

When he comes to, the first thing he sees is the goomba. What was his name again? Mark. _Marcus._

"Wha—" Oh, ow. Bloody hurts to talk. Esca settles for a pathetic groan.

"Stop moving," Marcus chides softly, but the hands on Esca's shoulders are firm. He chuckles lowly. "Wow, they kicked the shit out of you."

"Observant fellow," Esca glares. His glare then goes beyond Marcus' shoulder. He doesn't recognize the wall behind him, with the framed photos and the edge of a wooden desk, an Apple Powerbook propped open.

Whoa, whoa. "Where the fuck am I?" Esca asks, struggling to sit up, thin blanket sliding down his chest. Marcus just shoves him back on the bed though, and that hurts even more. Esca curls on his side, the one that aches a little less, and drags the blanket up to his chin, manfully stifling a whimper.

He hears Marcus sigh over him. "You're in my room."

"What are you, a fucking pervert or something?" Under the covers, Esca rubs a foot against his opposite shin—okay good, trousers still on. But maybe Marcus is a romantic pervert who likes to take it slow. If he's anything like that Berlusconi bloke, Esca better make sure he's on guard, bloody Italians and their roaming hands.

As if sensing Esca's thoughts, Marcus hits him on the shoulder.

"What the fuck!?"

"I brought you back here so you wouldn't get suspended."

Esca rolls over just far enough to give Marcus a cautious look. With just one eye, cos his other one's swollen shut.

Marcus continues, "I got those guys to back off, but they swore you'd get in trouble anyway. That if the teachers found out you'd gotten into another fight, you were suspended for sure. So...I dumped you in my backseat and went home."

Esca blinks. "In a car?"

"No, in a golden chariot.”

Esca generously chooses to ignore Marcus’ tone. “Bloody hell, you’ve got a car?”

“Yes, I do,” Marcus says slowly. “What about it?”

"Who the fuck in secondary has a vehicle? How old are you, anyway?"

“Just turned seventeen,” Marcus replies, looking uncomfortable. “Had to retake a year.” Marcus shifts in his seat. That's when Esca notices he's sitting so close, hand planted right next to Esca's hip. He suddenly feels very hot.

"Yeah, all right. Whatever, so you’re not the brightest bulb,” Esca rambles, as Marcus sends him a weird look. Oh shit, his gut was right, wasn't it? His arse is in danger. Esca clenches his cheeks together in alarm.

“Either way I'm not a bloody fag, you know," he says pre-emptively. "No matter what everyone says. I like cunt, yeah?"

Marcus frowns. "God, you've got a rotten mouth. No wonder people beat the shit out of you."

"Go fuck your mum."

Marcus snorts in disgust, then stands up, making the mattress rise up behind Esca's back. God, he doesn't even know why he says things like that. They just come out, yeah? Can't stop the words that burble out of him sometimes.

Marcus ent a psychic though, can't tell Esca doesn’t mean to be such a bitch. Marcus claps the lid of his laptop shut, like maybe he was on it earlier when Esca was passed out.

"I'm doing my homework in another room,” Marcus says, picking up his rucksack. “Let me know when you can stand up without puking all over my carpet. I'll take you home." He turns and strides towards the far end of the large room, where the doorway is. 

The back of his orange polo shirt is tucked into the waistband of his khakis. No—his skivvies. The white "Calvin Klein" logo is perfectly clear, even from fifteen feet. Esca has to bite his tongue not to say something bitchy. Says instead, "Marcus."

Marcus pauses by the door. Turns around and fixes Esca with a wary expression. "What?" he asks.

"How'd you get Ronald's little pep squad off my arse?"

For a while, Esca thinks Marcus won't say anything, cos he's just staring at him. Esca suddenly realizes he can't be looking too pretty right now. After all, he can only see out of one eye, his whole jaw hurts when he tries to talk, and there’s the metallic taste of blood on his tongue from the cut on his mouth. He's got to be swollen all over, like a lumpy mattress that needs a good beating. Though that's the last thing Esca needs.

Marcus says nothing. Just blinks, once. Esca feels the sudden urge to hide under the covers. Doesn't though, which is good cos otherwise he'd miss it, when Marcus lifts his right hand, the back of it facing Esca so that Esca can see—

Marcus' knuckles are red and swollen and split, kinda like Esca's lower lip.

Beyond that, Marcus' face is tanned and in pristine condition. His teeth, too, are bloody bright when he cracks open a slow, triumphant smile.

Esca can't help it, then. He smiles back at the nutter.

\-----

Esca doesn't know he's passed out again until he's being woken up. Warm hand making little shakes on his shoulder. Marcus' big face swimming into view.

"Whassat?" Esca snuffles, wiping the back of his hand across his nose.

"Want dinner?"

Esca blinks. Oh, and both eyes open, too; swelling must've gone down a bit.

"Time's it?" he asks blearily.

"It's eight. We're having chicken."

When he says it, Esca can smell it. Smells fucking delicious, all grease and butter and herbs filling the room like the best fucking potpurri he's ever smelled. His stomach gurgles quietly.

"Nah," Esca says, sitting up in Marcus' bed. He's stiff all over and his left side hurts like someone drove a lorry into it—rib or two's got to be broken, fuck. "No, take me home."

Marcus stopped shaking him awhile ago, but his hand's still on Esca's shoulder, he's only now noticing. It's heavy, and starting to warm through Esca's ratty t-shirt. Marcus takes his hand away.

"Sure. Just let me get my keys."

\-----

Marcus drives a second-hand hatchback. Second-hand, Esca thinks, cos the car is fucking doddery, square-edged with ripped upholstery. Still, it's a smooth ride, like Marcus knows that every bump and jostle on the road is rattling straight through Esca's bruised bones. 

It's gotten dark out. They don't speak. Marcus doesn't know the streets that well, so Esca mumbles out directions every so often, just when it matters. Make a left here; watch for the pot-hole there. All the while, he watches Marcus' hand on the gear stick, confident and sure as he puts it in higher gear, or changes down to a crawl.

Slows down to a stop.

"This it?"

Esca jerks his head up, hoping he wasn't caught looking. Looks out the window instead, and yeah, that's his fucking drive. Robert's '99 Focus parked on the dead lawn, yep, that's them all right.

"Keep going," he says, two fingers swinging back and forth, urging Marcus on.

The car rolls forward, slow and unsure. 

"Yeah, yeah. This is good." They're half a block down, cos Esca doesn't want Marcus accidentally meeting the foster parents, if "parents" could be a word ascribed to the navel-gazing, waste-of-space asswipes of Jeannine and her mangy husband, Robert. Yeah, no. Esca'll take a pass on that, thank you very much.

With a little difficulty, Esca gets out of the car.

Marcus wraps his arm around the headrest of the empty seat and cranes forward, peering out the passenger door. "You sure this is it?"

Fuck. Out of the corner of his eye, Esca can see the porch light of his house flicker on. The peeling-painted white door swings open, Jeannine in her blue dressing gown stepping out.

"You think I don't know where I bloody live?" Esca snaps.

Under the wan light of the overhead car bulb, Marcus frown is etched in shadow. "Forget it."

Esca swings a proper look over his shoulder, and shit, Jeannine's recognized him now. He makes to close the door, hearing Marcus rock back to his side of the car with a creak of old leather, but then Esca finds himself hesitating for no proper reason. Just—it seems weird, yeah, breaking it off like this. Feels like Esca ought to...fuck, he doesn't know. Like he oughtta do something or say something. Like a thank you, maybe?

"You closing the door or what?" Marcus says, sounding grumpy.

"Yeah, sorry." Esca closes the door with a weird, half-aborted move, finally shutting it the final two inches with a hard _whump._

Marcus peels away, filling the air with an obnoxious screech, the smell of burnt rubber lingering after it.

 _"Esca!"_ Just as shrill, Jeannine's voice pierces the evening calm.

Fuck.

\-----

The next day is bloody hell, his body throbbing all over like he was something cold wrapped in rubber bands, then thrust into the tropics of India only to bloat uncomfortably in his constricting clothes.

"That's disgusting," Liathan sneers. "You blow up all over me, get your nasty innards on my Louie Baton kicks, I rip your fucking throat out."

"You retarded or summat? I'd be dead already."

"Yeah well, I make you _extra_ dead."

Liathan's a fucking retard sometimes, but he's interesting enough. Plus, they both love Argy Bargy, so there's always that.

When the bell rings, signaling first period, they both swagger off to their respective classes—Liathan in Maths (for the third time), Esca to History.

\-----

"Marcus. Marcus. Marcus."

Marcus ignores him. Esca frowns. Digs his biro out of the bottom of his rucksack (because the lesson started twenty minutes ago and Esca hasn't jotted down a word, so fuckin' what?) and pulls the cap off with his teeth.

He leans over to draw on Marcus' painstakingly neat notes. Right on top of Marcus' painstakingly neat handwriting.

He draws...a penis.

Marcus pauses, even as Mr. Dorsen keeps droning on.

Esca adds some hair to the testicles with short, happy flicks of his biro. _Swish. Swish. Swish._

Marcus' ears turn pink.

Esca smirks.

"Mr. MacCunoval!"

Shite, the teacher’s gone all pissy, like he's been calling Esca's name for awhile now. Voice raised like Esca's gone deaf or summat, but he ent fucking deaf, yeah? Just doesn't care about the fucking French getting guillotined or whatever, they probably deserved it. Waves his hand dismissively in the air, no eye contact, then goes back to drawing on Marcus' notes. Adds some hair around the base of the cock, which he's drawn all soft and droopy cos it's funnier that way—

"Esca," Marcus says quietly.

Esca pauses, the quiet _skritch_ of his biro going still.

Finally, he glances up at the front of the room. Mr. Dorsen's giving him an exasperated look, wrinkly forehead beneath bushy, caterpillar eyebrows that are entirely too large for his small, naked head.

"What is it, sir?" Esca asks politely.

Clearly taken aback, Mr. Dorsen takes a moment to turn to the whiteboard behind him, where he's been scrawling out random phrases throughout his lecture. He collects himself, then asks primly, "The name of the period controlled by Robespierre, just after the start of the war?"

Easy, that one. "Reign of Terror," Esca says. It's the name of a band he and Liathan went all the way down to London to see, last summer. They weren't that great, but when the guitarist took his dick out and started pissing on the front row, well. It was memorable, at any rate.

He goes back to his drawing. He's almost finished with it, just needs to be a bit hairier on the left ball, and then yeah, that’s it. It's a fucking work of art, right on top of Marcus' notes. Esca signs his name with a flourish.

To his left, he hears a little whuff of noise, like Marcus is trying to hide a snort. Esca leans back into his own seat and closes his eyes, feeling oddly content. It's barely nine-thirty; he can catch a few more winks before Geography starts at ten.

\-----

School blows, though Esca can't say he likes weekends much better. It's a lot of work staying out of the house all the time, but he's got no choice, really—it's either that or be forced to deal with Robert and his naffing about; Robert, who is always home, always pissed halfway to a gutter somewhere, and always angry about a footie match, or what someone said to him that day, or bloody anything really while Jeannine's off working three jobs to support Robert's drinking and the boob job she’s saving up for. 

Esca hates being home with Robert and Jeannine. They act like the world's wronged them somehow, and they can get back at it for wronging everyone else in return. Usually Esca, cos he's right there. 

Fuck. He can't wait 'till his birthday, when he can hightail it out of the fucking system.

Esca hocks a loogie, ignores the twinge in his neck as he turns to spit onto the ground.

When he looks up, Marcus comes into view, walking out from the shadowed corridor of the school and onto the grounds where kids are loitering on the flat, grassy lawn, or waiting for their parents to pick them up by the kerb. Esca's there himself, sitting on some bars that are cold as a witch's tit beneath his arse, swinging his legs as he waits in front of the car park.

Waiting for Liathan, that is. He ent waiting for _Marcus_ , don't be daft. Marcus just happens to be there. Hasn't noticed Esca yet, he's walking towards his beat-up hatchback, which is parked on the opposite side of the car park, head down as he paws through the front zip of his rucksack, likely searching for his keys.

Esca's hands squeeze around the metal bar. Liathan won't be out of detention for 'nother hour or so. No harm in saying hullo, yeah?

He makes to hop off the rails, but that's when he sees Kirby and Tom and Rupert, and another rubgy knobhead the year below start to gather around Marcus. The fuck did they crawl out from? Marcus doesn't notice, he's got his head shoved inside his stupid fucking rucksack, just look the fuck up, mate.

Esca drops onto the gritty cement with a little crunch of his Chucks, and shoves his hands into the pocket of his beloved leather jacket. Wiggles his fingers through the holes in the lining, shoulders raised up by his ears as he starts to stride forward with as much aggro as he can muster with two tender—broken?—ribs (he patched himself up last night, so no big deal. Read on the internet that broken ribs are fine, don't even have to see a doctor or nuffink). Esca reckons he’s got one more scrap in him.

By the time Marcus finally looks up from his rucksack, Esca's close enough to hear—

"Oh, hey guys." Marcus voice is cautious, but still friendly. Such a bleeding neek.

Esca sees Kirby square his shoulders, the other boys falling behind him in kind of a V-shape like they're geese or summat.

"Hey, Marcus," Kirby replies cheerfully. "Me and the boys, we're going to Chicken Cottage. You wanna come with us?"

Esca falters, thrown for a loop. He scoots behind a Ford Explorer. The situation requires further observation.

Marcus scratches the back of his neck. "What's a Chicken Cottage?" he asks.

Kirby gives a bright laugh, throws his shorn, pudgy head back and outright _brays._ The others follow suit, like a pack of hyenas.

All the while, Marcus just stands there. Esca can't read his expression from here, six or seven cars away, but then Kirby swings a meaty arm around Marcus' huge shoulders, having to reach up a little, but Marcus doesn't brush him off like Esca expects him to.

"It's chicken, mate," Kirby chuckles, lightly thumping the front of Marcus' chest with an open palm. "They got fried chicken where you're from? Where's that, anyway?"

"Rome. And yeah, we have fried chicken."

"So come on, then. Tom’s brother will drive, we're meeting Ronald there."

In the shadow of the Ford Explorer, warm metal at his back, Esca lets himself frown. Cos seriously, why the fuck are Kirby and his clowns sucking up to Marcus? Even worse—why the fuck hasn't Marcus told them to go fuck themselves yet? 

Well, shit. The arseholes are gonna jump Marcus, first chance they get, aren't they? And they're taking advantage of Marcus' retarded lack of self-preservation by luring him somewhere the fight ent fair. Kirby said as much—Ronald was gonna be there, and Esca knows firsthand what kind of slimy, cowardly things Ronald does to win a fight.

"Sure," Marcus says with a shrug, which makes Kirby's arm slip off. "Why not. I'm pretty hungry. But I'll take my own car."

"Great," Kirby says, clapping his hands together and walking backwards from where Marcus is shaking out the keys from his pocket—no wonder the idiot couldn't find them in his rucksack—and turning to unlock his hatchback. "Just follow the black Explorer," Kirby calls, pointing towards Esca.

No, not at Esca; no one's seen him. Which means—shit, a cursory glance reveals a vaguely familiar-looking bloke sitting in the driver seat of the SUV he'd ducked behind. Tom’s brother, presumably.

Esca scampers away, hands balled up into fists inside his jacket as he makes for the kerb on the far end of the grounds.

\-----

At the entrance of the car park, Esca barely restrains himself from spitting on the Explorer as Kirby and the others roll past, the naff beats of Drake thundering out from juiced up speakers.

But then they turn at the traffic lights, and it's Marcus' turn to drive up. Esca pushes off the tree he'd been leaning against and ambles up, seeing his own face in the reflected glass of the driver-side window. 

He hears the motor go into neutral as Marcus rolls down the window—by hand, really?—and sticks his elbow onto the ledge, leaning out.

"Esca," he says warmly, with a soft smile. "What's up?"

Something catches Esca off-guard, makes him forget why exactly—oh, right. 

Esca scowls. Rests his forearm on the hot roof of Marcus' car and leans in. "What are you doing, you idiot?"

Marcu's smile fades. "What do you mean?"

"Are you bloody retarded? Hanging out with Kirby like you lot are right proper mates, you're gonna get twattered, don't you get it?"

"Um, first of all, I have no idea what you're saying," Marcus says, his expression retreating into irritation. "Second—just because I let you copy my notes in History doesn't mean you get to tell me what to do."

"Look," Esca says, growing frustrated. "I don't _care_ what you do, you can go toss one off in the middle of the canteen for all I bloody care. But they're gonna kick your arse, you understand. You'll look like me—" Esca points to his purple shiner, at the eye he still can't properly see out of. "—if you show up to fucking Chicken Cottage thinking you're about to get bloody chicken poppers, because that's not what’s gonna happen."

Marcus sends Esca a sharp look, like he's seeing something he doesn't like. Esca's used to that, yeah. But not from Marcus, and it affects him more than it’s got any right to.

"Esca,” Marcus says warningly. “Get off my car"

"Not until you promise me you'll go right home."

Marcus sets his elbow on the windowsill and steadies himself with one hand on the steering wheel, leaning out 'til he's nearly nose-to-nose with Esca. The steely look hasn't left his eyes, which Esca notices are green this close up.

"You made me lose their car," Marcus says, sounding friendly-like but his dark, Italian brows are furrowed deep. "So, you're gonna tell me how to get to Chicken Cottage."

God damn it. Esca plants his hands on the edge of the car roof and locks his elbows straight, away from Marcus' stupid fucking face.

Heaves a world-weary sigh. "It's a right on Atterwith, you pass three lights, and then turn a left onto Legram. You can see the sign from the street, turn left into the car park."

Behind them, someone honks their horn.

"Also," Esca adds, because he can't bloody help himself. "You can go fuck yourself, mate. See if I give a damn when you come to class tomorrow a fucking cripple."

He doesn't feel the blow so much as taste it, when Marcus splits the cut in his mouth anew with bare knuckles. Blood runs over Esca's tongue and he swallows it automatically, retching a little at the familiar taste.

"Thanks for the directions," Marcus says angrily. He pulls back into his car, puts it into gear and drives off, the car lurching temporarily as Marcus fucks up the clutch with a grinding noise that makes Esca reel back.

He curses the back of Marcus' car. Wipes his nose, gives a great sniff. 

When the next car edges up, Esca sees the girl in the driver seat shoot him a dirty look. He flips her the bird.

\-----

When Liathan finally pulls his head out of his arse and meets Esca in the car park, Esca may or may not ask him if he thinks Davina—Liathan's sister, who's picking them up—would want fried chicken, his shout, he feels like a Peri Peri burger, all right? No need to give a man shit for his fucking cravings yeah, and Davina's a sight nicer than her twatty little brotha, ent she? So can they get Chicken Cottage or what?

All the while he's trying to convince Liathan to go, Esca can see for himself he's gone off the bend. Stalking Marcus like some kinda pervert would, but the way he sees it—he owes the goomba one. Marcus saved his arse yesterday, cos much as Esca doesn't give a damn about his edu-fuck-cation, he'd much rather be at Cottingswood High than lousing about at home, playing punching bag with Robert. Marcus kept him from being suspended, or even expelled. So yeah, Esca's indebted to him. And Esca ent a fucking deadbeat like those rugby shitheads, he knows something about honour.

Enough to keep Marcus from getting positively twattered on his second day at school, anyway.

Liathan mumbles something like "we'll see" about Chicken Cottage, but Esca doesn''t have to wait long cos Davina's pulling into the roundabout in her sensible car, a white Subaru. Esca lets himself into the backseat, Liathan taking up shotgun in front of him.

Inside the compartment of the car, Liathan's voice is twice as obnoxious as he turns to his sister. 

"Eh, Daffy," he says. "Esca promised us Chicken Cottage."

"I didn't say you too!" Esca protests from the back. "Just Davina, for driving us, yeah? I haven't got enough money."

"So fine," Liathan says, slamming back against the car seat so that it bounces painfully against Esca's scraped up knees, the little bitch. "Daffy, you take us to Chicken Cottage, an' Esca'll buy you a Mountain burger, two spicy chicken burgers, a large side of chips, and a pepsi. Oh, and whatever you want, too."

Davina sighs from the front seat, pushing her long, brown hair behind one ear. Her eyes meet Esca's in the rearview mirror.

"Esca, you don't have to bribe me if you want Chicken Cottage. We'll just need to be done before five, I’ve got a shift at the aquarium tonight."

Esca victoriously reaches up and tugs on the bristles of Liathan's dippy mohawk, bouncing his skull against the backrest of the car seat. "Thanks, Davina!" he chirps.

Liathan throws a biro at him from the front, which Esca neatly catches and secretes into his rucksack.

\-----

The three of them shuffle into the overly-lit restaurant and stand in line. There are a whole bunch of other kids there, as it's just after school. Esca tries to look nonchalant as he swivels around, looking for Marcus or Ronald or Kirby, any of those goons.

 _Aha,_ he thinks, when his gaze alights on the messy hair of a bloke facing away from them, busy by the soft drink fountain. That's got to be Marcus; nobody else but some daft, foreign kid would be wearing a fucking pink polo shirt with the hem tucked into his waistband. Belted, no less. What a prat!

Marcus finishes topping off his soda—turns around with the cup in hand, his gaze colliding with Esca's. He looks surprised, then not at all, mouth going flat with disapproval.

" _Esca,_ man. You bloody in there?" Liathan raps on the side of Esca's head with his knuckles, which Esca irritably snaps away from.

"Aye, I'm right bloody here, ent I?"

"Then _order."_

Oh. Esca gives a cursory glance at the overhead menu, mumbles out the first combo he sees, hands over the only note he's got in his wallet. Hopes it's enough to cover it.

It is, since he gets some money back, and then the three of them are moving along to the waiting area.

Marcus is still by the soda fountain, receipt crumpled between two fingers against his cup. His lips are wrapped around a straw as he sucks down his drink like he's trying to finish it in thirty seconds, like one a them cheap kids who want to make sure they get a refill 'fore they leave, get their money's worth. Esca knows better though; that's angry drinking, not cheapskate drinking. Marcus' narrowed eyes say so.

Liathan elbows Esca in the side, drawing his attention.

"Bloody tosser, ent he? Fucking polo shirt and tan trousers, like he's gonna go golfing with the queen or suffink. Maybe we should rough him up, yeah, bloody ponce fucking deserves it."

"Shut up, Liathan," Esca says, as does Davina. They look at each other and grin. Davina reaches over and ruffles Esca's hair. 

She's only two years older than him and Liathan, but Esca doesn't mind being treated like a little kid if it's by Davina. She seems so much older. Probably has something to do with how, out of the scores of children Liathan's parents have squired, Davina's the oldest. She's basically got a little family of her own to take care'a. In a way, Esca's part of it, like a proxy child.

"The fuck you lookin' at, eh?"

Liathan's angry voice breaks Esca's thoughts, and he follows his friend's gaze to find the culprit.

By the soda fountain, Marcus stays perched against the metal condiments counter, but he pulls his mouth off his straw and straightens up, broad shoulders making him roughly the size of a brick shithouse.

"Liathan, leave it," Davina says wearily, grabbing her younger brother's shoulder but he just shrugs it off and starts walking. Fucking hell, when Liathan thinks someone's dishonoured him or his fucking family— _especially_ when it's to do with his big sister Davina—ent no way to calm him down, not 'til someone's face is smashed in.

Esca watches Liathan storm over to Marcus with a sinking heart. For fuck’s fake, he was here to save the Roman's arse, not to set a fucking rottweiler onto him.

"Looking at my sister, were you?" Liathan snaps, getting up into Marcus' face. Doesn't matter Marcus is three times his size; Liathan ent scared of fucking nuffink. Sometimes that's a good thing; usually it's not.

"Liathan," Esca sighs, following him through the path he'd cleared, patrons bunched to one side eager to get away from the hotheaded chav with the mohawk. The staff behind the counter, too, are starting to look at them; last thing Esca wants is to start trouble for Davina. "Come on," Esca says when he reaches Liathan. "I want my fucking chicken wings, yeah?"

"You pussying out, MacCunoval?"

"Shut up, no. Just—look at me, Liathan, you think I could take on this fucking meathead right now?" Esca yanks up the hem of his tee, not even up to his black-and-blue ribs, but still it's enough to see how much damage he'd sustained the day before. Even Marcus is staring, eyes bugging out a bit. "I been pissing blood all day, mate, so can we just fucking leave it?"

Liathan gives him a long, hard look. In the corner of his eye, Esca can see Marcus' intent gaze on the both of them.

Maybe that's why Liathan pivots in place, jutting his face back into Marcus'. "Outside," he snarls.

God damn it, Liathan.

Marcus, for his part, doesn't bat an eyelash. He pushes off the steel counter with his hip and stiffly walks out the restaurant, Liathan hot on his heels.

Esca shoves his receipt into Davina's hand. Doesn't say anything; doesn't have to. She knows better than anyone what Liathan and Esca get up to.

"Be careful," she says reluctantly. "Don't want your bloodied piss in my car, all right?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," Esca says with a grim smirk.

\-----

Ronald and his lot are gathered 'round the black Explorer, bags of uneaten takeaway in their hands like they're waiting for Marcus to come out. Whether to kick his arse or genuinely to share a meal, Esca won't ever know cos things are heating up now, regardless.

A few yards away, Marcus and Liathan are circling each other, hackles raised. Esca feels his arm hairs prickle.

Liathan stops in his tracks. Keeping his eyes fixed on Marcus, he stretches out an arm and points to the gaggle of footballers, addressing them.

"You lot stay out of this. It's between me and Richie Branson, yeah?"

"The fuck you got against Aquila, Freakazoid?"

Liathan whirls around. "You know this toff?"

"Well," Kirby steps up. "Yeah, I mean. I guess so. He's new. But he's reet, yeah?"

"This twat?" Liathan repeats disbelievingly. "He's faffed up like my dearly departed grandpa, and you lot think he's reet?"

"What's wrong with how I look?" Marcus asks. He’s ignored.

Ronald and Tom have stepped up now, rounding onto Liathan, bags of takeaway ditched to the ground behind them, forgotten. Tom cracks his neck, jerking it side to side like he he's gearing up for kickoff and Liathan's head is the rugby ball.

"We can't all be bloody chavs like you and your poofter boyfriend," Tom laughs, his mean eyes flicking over to Esca and back.

Liathan's vibrating with anger now, but he's outnumbered five to one. Six, if you count Marcus.

Bloody hell. Things are getting out of control.

No one to stop it but him, yeah? Esca strides forward, hand grasping behind for the blade he keeps tucked in his waistband. He might be recovering from any manner of bodily injuries, but that don't mean Esca can't be quick when it matters.

In seconds he's joined the scene where he swiftly grabs the back of Marcus' collar, earning a little gurgle of surprise as Esca holds the blade to Marcus' throat. The sharp edge sits just beneath his Adam's apple where the tissue's softest. 

"Esca?" Marcus manages between clenched teeth, his eyes darting to the side, body trying to rotate around like he wants to see.

Esca doesn't answer, but kicks out the backs of Marcus' knees so that he falls to the ground, two hard knocks dropping like stones onto concrete. Marcus hisses, but Esca keeps his blade up, keeps Marcus’ collar taut against his throat.

"Ey Ronald," Esca says jauntily. "How's your mum doing? Now that you're home every day, you get to join in when the pool boy comes 'round? Threesomes every afternoon, mate, can't get much sweeter than that."

"You little shit," Ronald snarls, stepping forward. "I know how much you like getting slapped around, but don't think I don't call your bluff. You ain't gonna shank the new kid."

"You gonna test me?" Esca laughs meanly. God, he hopes they don't. His body's not up for it; he’d fold like a piece of wet cardboard.

Esca unclenches his hand from the back of Marcus' collar and roves up the nape of his neck, grabbing a messy handful of thick hair which he uses to jerk back, baring Marcus' tender throat.

"Come on," Esca taunts. "Test me."

Ronald's glaring at him like he can make Esca spontaneously combust through sheer willpower, but he doesn’t move. Not forwards, but not backwards either.

Esca flips the blade around in his hand so that the pointy tip's pressed into the base of Marcus' throat, Esca's hand wrapped around the short hilt like he's having a wank. 

He doesn''t take his eyes off Ronald, cos you got to stare a beast down, yeah? So he doesn't know if he's actually drawing blood with his blade. Kind of hopes so—not cos he actually wants to hurt Marcus, but because a little blood goes a long way in terms of getting people to back the fuck off.

Anyway, whatever it is he's doing, it's working. Ronald suddenly deflates like an air mattress sprung a leak, and he retreats a few feet, back to where his goons and Tom’s brother are sneering hard enough Esca thinks their noses might fall off.

He loosens his grip on Marcus' hair. Moves his blade away—

With a surge like an incoming tide, Marcus twists around and curls his hands into Esca's shirtfront. He looks like a bloomin' lunatic, hair standing up in unruly tufts, ruby-coloured blood trailing down the base of his throat and into the half-unbuttoned placket of his pink polo shirt. 

"Fuck you, MacCunoval," Marcus growls. 

Next to them, Esca hears Liathan pivot, his designer trainers grinding gravel underfoot. Esca holds a hand up, signaling him to stay put.

"I saved your fucking ass yesterday, and this is how you repay me? Maybe Ronald and the others were right in beating you within an inch of your life. You're just a self-serving piece of shit, aren't you?"

With one last, dogged glare, Marcus whips his hands down, releasing Esca from the inch or so he'd been dragged up from his tiptoes. Esca stumbles a bit, but doesn't let his expression waver even as inside his head, he's thinking _shit._

_Shit, shit, shit._

Marcus turns around and struts over to his car. Ronald and Kirby try and stop him, mumbling something Esca can't hear, but Marcus just shoves them off and gamely moves past.

The rugby goons shrug. They collect their takeaway from the ground and pile back into the Explorer without so much as a backwards glance. Maybe they're shaken; maybe they honestly don't give a shit. Either way, Esca's glad to see 'em fuck off.

Somewhere to his right, he hears a low, appreciative whistle. Turns his head. It's Liathan, sidling over with his hands in his trackie bottoms.

"Puppy can bite," Liathan chuckles. "That was fun."

Maybe for a dodgy, violent aggro like his best friend. Not for Esca. "Let's go back inside," he says wearily. "Davina's probably eaten all our nosh."

They round the restaurant and Esca enters the door, beckoning Davina over from her seat. She gets up with a little smile and patters over, unopened paper bags crumpling loudly beneath her manicured hands.

\-----

On the car ride home, Esca's mind runs on repeat.

He thinks about how Marcus looked when he'd had both hands wrapped in Esca's shirt—like he wanted to throttle Esca, of course. But under that, upset for a totally different reason. Like he thought Esca was better than he is—like Esca betrayed him or something, which is fucking daft, they don't even know each other. The fuck does Marcus know about Esca, eh? Fuck all, is what.

Doesn't stop the guilt from bubbling in his stomach. Though, that could just as easily be the spicy chicken wings Esca inhaled in about thirty seconds flat.

Looking down, Esca frowns at the right mess he's made. Sweeps some greasy fried bits off his lap with a defeated sigh.

\-----

Some part of Esca had hoped that by tomorrow, Marcus would've forgotten about their stupid fight at Chicken Cottage. It wasn't a big deal, anyway, just something friends do. Roughhousing, that is. Thas how him and Liathan get along, anyhow. A little scuffle never hurt no one, yeah?

Well, must'a been the dumb part of Esca that done the hoping, cos Marcus sure as fuck hasn't forgotten. He keeps picking at the small wound between his collarbones and avoids Esca's gaze. In fact, there's no acknowledgment of any sort that Esca's even bloody alive, except that halfway through lesson he scratches a piece of dried blood off his throat and flicks it onto Esca's table.

"Bloody hell," Esca grouses, swiping the little fleck off his desk. "Don't throw your nasty scabs on my table."

He hunches over his desk defensively and squints at Marcus, but Marcus just sits up straighter in his chair so that his big naffin' head blocks the morning sun streaming behind him and Esca can see his stoic expression with full clarity as he calls out, imperiously:

"Mr. Dorsen, sir. Could you repeat that last part?"

Mr. Dorsen stutters through a response, clearly unused to students paying enough attention to bother asking questions. Esca knows that Marcus is just fronting, though; his left hand's clenched so tight over his left thigh his veins are standing out, and he's taking enough notes to finish a goddamned novel by the end of first period. But all it takes is Esca looking past Marcus' tanned forearms to read the smudgy grey words—

_The first year of the Revalution the 3rd estate in June the assalt—_

to know for sure that bloody hell, Marcus is just transcribing the words coming out of Mr. Dorsen's mouth, skipping whole parts of sentences at that. He ent paying a _lick_ of attention, but he's being a stubborn arse about making it look like he is.

"Gonna ignore me, then?" Esca hisses. "Look, whas the big fucking deal? I didn't want you to kick Lie-Lie's twatty little arse. I wasn't gonna really hurt you. Didn't know you were gonna be such a fucking girl about it."

Esca hears the tiny sound of pencil lead snapping. Marcus quickly thumbs out new lead, _click click click,_ and keeps scribbling nonsense.

Esca sighs. "Marcus."

Marcus flips a page.

"Marcus. Marcus. Marcus."

Esca hears his pencil lead snap again. With a muttered curse, Marcus clicks some more out, but it’s done run out. Thwarted, Marcus throws it onto his notebook like a petulant child. Then, for the first time all day, he turns to look at Esca.

"What?" he snaps.

Esca had this all planned out, wot he was gonna say, how to make Marcus realize he was being completely daft about yesterday's non-event, but the words evaporate from his brain like they were never there.

Marcus blinks at him, quiet and expectant.

"Erm," Esca says, licking his lips. Fuck's sake. He drums his fingers on his scarred desk—most of the gouges his—trying to think of something to say—

"That's it, _Um?_ That's what you wanted to say. Um. They should give you an Oscar for that, Esca. Moving stuff."

"Ey, fuck you. I'm trying to apologize here."

At the front of the room, Mr. Dorsen loudly clears his throat. That's usually Esca's cue to start talking louder, but whatever, Esca's got other things to think about right now. Marcus is leaning in, the cheap wood of his seat creaking beneath him.

His knee bumps Esca's under their desks, making Esca jump. Marcus doesn't seem to notice though.

"I'm listening," Marcus says seriously.

Shit. Why is he making this so hard? Esca darts a look around the room, hoping nobody's paying attention to them. He's got his fucking rep to think about.

"I'm sorry," Esca says quickly, eyes everywhere but on Marcus.

"Sorry for what?"

"I don't know. For making you mad?"

"Wrong answer. Try apologizing for _why_ I’m mad."

"So you _are_ ," Esca blurts, feeling really shite all of a sudden.

 _"Obviously,_ " Marcus says, keeping his voice down but he's starting to sound incensed.

"Okay, fine. I'm fucking sorry, all right? I'm sorry for—for—" Esca makes twitchy gestures with his hands which is supposed to mean "everything" or "whatever you want" or "I don't bloody know".

"Sorry about holding a knife at my neck, maybe? Sorry for kicking me to the ground and fucking up my knees, my leg?"

Before Esca can make fun of him for being a right weakling, Marcus barrels on, "I broke it in three places last year, right in the middle of a game where scouts were watching me, so don't you dare tell me I'm being a girl, or a pussy, or whatever it is you were about to say. Year 10 was hell for me, and then I had to repeat it, so the last thing I want to do is come to a brand new school in this—this fucking _village_ of a city, and have a pompous little jerk-off be nice to me one day, then throw me to the wolves the next."

Marcus suddenly unclenches his left hand from his thigh and rubs at the muscle irritably, the heel of his hand rolling up and down like he's kneading dough. He still looks annoyed with Esca, but his face slowly colours up in embarrassment the longer Esca watches him. Like he doesn't want anyone to see him hurting, 'specially now he's just told Esca he's got a fucked up leg.

"I wasn't nice to you," Esca eventually says. It looks like it takes Marcus a moment to catch up, to figure out what Esca's referring to. But it teases out a reluctant smile, and that's good, right there.

"Don't kid yourself," Marcus says.

"Asshole," Esca says automatically. Fuck. "I didn't mean that," he backtracks.

Marcus rolls his eyes. "I know." There's amusement in his face though, hidden in the tiny quirk of his lips, in the long-suffering sigh he gives.

Esca hopes this means Marcus isn't mad anymore. "I'm not great at words," Esca adds. "So, erm."

The idea hits him suddenly, and it's so perfect Esca doesn't know why he didn't think of it last night, while he'd been lying awake in bed mulling over what to say to Marcus the next morning. He leans forward in his seat, wincing a little when his tender ribs bump into the edge of his desk. Hikes up the back of his leather jacket and white tee shirt, his skin prickling a little as it hits the cool air, and gropes for his blade.

He sees Marcus' green eyes track the movement. His face is eerily blank, like maybe he's still worried Esca's gonna stick him but doesn't want to show it.

He feels a kick to the back of his chair.

" _Esca!_ What are you doing?"

It's Molly Aiken, who's generally all right but sort of uptight. She loves telling Esca what to do. He loves telling her to fuck off, mostly. 

"Fuck off, Molly," Esca tosses over his shoulder, freeing the sheathed dagger from the small of his back and wagging it at her. "I ent starting nuffink, but don't provoke me."

He turns to Marcus, who's watching the weapon with outright suspicion now. Maybe that's cos Esca's pulled it out of the simple, leather sheath and pointed it at him.

"Fuck's sake, I'm not gonna stick you," Esca says exasperatedly. "I jus want you to have it. For now, I mean. Once you trust me not to stab you no more."

Marcus frowns, looking confused in the way only lumbering footballers can. Esca snorts.

"It was me dad's," he explains, turning the dagger so that it's pointing towards the front of the room. "B-R-M," he says, showing Marcus the small engraving at the base of the blade. "Brennan Cecil MacCunoval."

" _Was_ your dad's?" Marcus asks, wrapping his huge hand around Esca's over the hilt, instead of just waiting for him to pass it over, the clumsy buffoon.

Esca extricates his hand. Scratches his neck, feeling itchy. "He's dead," he says simply. "Mum too." He's thankful when Marcus doesn't push it, despite the overt curiosity in his eyes which linger, present and invasive, like he’s trying to read Esca’s mind. 

The stupid Roman finally looks away. He examines the dagger in his hand, then picks up the leather sheath from Esca's desk and tucks the blade away with overmuch care.

"Now you know I won’t kill you," Esca says, trying to shake off how unsettled he feels. "But I'm warning you, if you lose that blade I'll do it anyway."

Marcus chuckles, which makes him look like a daft ten-year-old, his smile is so fucking guileless. It makes Esca feel all a bit lightheaded.

"Yeah, yeah," Esca says with a sniff. "You call me shrimp again, I'm telling Liathan you're fucking his sister."

"Maybe I am."

As revenge, Esca digs out a permanent marker from Marcus' pencil bag and draws a pair of testicles on his forearm. Marcus, like the great idiot he is, lets him.


	2. Liathan is a Two-Bit Tosser Who Pisses Himself Like a Retarded Monkey Which, That’s Unfair, Apologies to the Monkey

It's period five. Esca's skiving off English. He'll get the call home, o' course, stupid automated thing from the main office, ratting him out, but luckily Robert either doesn't know how to work the voicemail (probable) or he just doesn't give a rat's arse about what Esca gets up to during school (definite).

Liathan blows smoke into his face.

"Fuck off, mate," Esca says, waving off the cloying stink of pot rising up around them. "Don't wanna be inhaling none of your rank-ass skunk weed, for fuck's sake."

"Ey, why not? This is premium grade, top-shelf mari-ju-ahna, ya hear? You ought to be begging me for sloppy seconds." Liathan takes a long hit from his joint, the paper burning down almost to his mouth.

Esca ducks the inevitable plume of smoke exhaled his way, pulling his rucksack off his shoulder and tossing it onto the grass with a thud. Hoists himself up onto an empty bar that hasn't got a bike locked to it.

"I hate that shit," Esca moans. "Makes my eyeballs hurt, and then I feel retarded as fuck for the next few hours, almost like your level of retarded. Which is really bloody retarded." Esca shudders. "Yeah, no thanks."

"Ta, mate," Liathan says sarcastically, leaning over from his seat on the bike stand next to him and flicks some ashes onto Esca's lap. Esca kicks out in his general direction, landing nothing.

"Aye, give me a jimmy of whisky any day," Esca says absent-mindedly.

They sit in silence for awhile, Liathan puffing away at a second joint, Esca closing his eyes trying to feel the wan, autumnal sunlight filtering through the open mesh of the bike shed and onto his face.

Suddenly, the cage gives a great rattle and Esca pitches forward with surprise. Catches his feet just in time, heels digging into the mushy grass beneath him.

"Fuck's sake!" Liathan barks, throwing the stub of his spliff onto the ground and leaping off his seat. "We're trying to have a little relax, here, you bloody asswipes!"

Esca's eyes widen when he see Marcus jog over, chasing the errant football that'd crashed into the bike shed. He's wearing a P.E. uniform, the heather grey shirt, while normally swimming on the other boys (namely, Esca), looks about two sizes too small on Marcus. 

And Jesus, the navy P.E. shorts are even _shorter_ than the ridiculous things Marcus voluntarily puts on; Esca can practically see his balls hanging out for fuck's sake. As for the scar, now that he's looking for it, he can see raised, pinkish skin running up Marcus' calf, bone-side, zagging across his kneecap before fading out into the olive skin of his thighs.

"Fuck's wrong wif you?"

Liathan's quiet voice does more to startle Esca than any of his usual shouting.

"Nuffink," Esca says too quickly. Fuck, he can feel his cheeks warm up.

Liathan calls out to Marcus, "Fetch your bloody ball like a good puppy and fuck off, would 'ya? You're killin' my high with all your caveman grunting and stomping about."

Marcus shoots Liathan a dirty look, swiping the football off the grass with one hand and tucking it under his arm. He's about to turn and get back in the game, which is still going on ten or twenty yards away where the mixed P.E. class is in session, when Esca yells out:

"The fuck you running about on your leg, for?"

He feels more than sees Liathan send him a perplexed look. Hell, it's probably on Esca's face too—he didn't mean to say that, the words came from bloody nowhere.

Marcus turns back to Esca with a stubborn expression on his face; one that Esca is getting to know quite well.

"It's fine," Marcus grits between his teeth.

Liathan perks up next to Esca, like a wolf scenting prey. "Ey dago, whas wrong with your fucking leg? Hm? You a cripple or something?"

"My leg. Is fine," Marcus growls. His arm's clenched so tight 'round the football, Esca thinks it might pop like an overinflated tyre.

Trying not to think too much about what he's doing, Esca pushes off the metal bar and strides out of the bike shed, up to where Marcus is so that they're out of earshot from Liathan.

"What the hell, Marcus. Don't tell me you've been running around, being some big football hero on a leg that don't work so great. I saw you in class this morning—you looked like you were shitting a brick trying to keep it together."

"I don't owe you an explanation," Marcus says. "In fact, I never should've told you about my injury." His cold words hide nuffink; he's clearly mortified, especially in front of Liathan who's watching them like he's stalking his dinner.

For a guy who's so confident about everything else, Marcus sure as hell gets his knickers in a twist over a stupid broken leg.

"You should tell Mrs. Harding about it. I'm sure you can do weights or something, you shouldn't be running a fucking marathon on that thing," Esca says, trying to sound gentle. Doesn't want to scare Marcus off from a good idea.

Marcus' eyes warily flick over Esca's shoulder to where Liathan's probably gotten bored by now. Probably lighting up a third joint; Lie-Lie's a right fucking idiot sometimes, he likes smoking too much and getting paranoid. Says it's funny, the shit that runs through his head while it's happening. Never mind Esca's the one who has to hold his hand as he's rocking back and forth in a corner somewhere.

Marcus looks back to Esca, and he seems to relax a bit, broad shoulders easing up. "You're right," he relents. "Maybe I'll talk to Mrs. Harding. I’m really supposed to be keeping off this leg until next PT."

"Ey, you know," Esca says, snapping his fingers as he thinks aloud. "I’m good at shit like that. Liathan's mum owns a spa, she taught me some stuff, like massages and whatever. I can take a look at your leg, you know, if you want..."

Esca trails off, realizing—with no small amount of horror—exactly what he's saying. "Oh shit," he says, rubbing his face with both hands. "That sounds completely faggy. Fuck. Sorry. I'm not like, trying to feel up your balls or nuffink. I'm just pretty good at it, but, erm, yeah never mind, forget I said anything—"

Marcus reaches out and grips Esca on the bicep with his free hand. "Esca," he says, small grin lurking somewhere in his eyes. "You're rambling. And stop. That'd be great, if you could check out my leg. I'm not used to this weather, so it's been acting up all week. So...thanks. If the offer's still on the table."

Marcus keeps holding on to Esca's bicep; he's got no bleeding sense of boundaries. Esca tries to ignore how his face is probably ripe as a red fucking tomato as he replies, "Yeah, 'course. After school, maybe? But I'd have to get some stuff from Liathan's, so, erm. A little later?"

Marcus lets go of Esca's arm, pats the same spot genially. "Yeah, that works for me."

They make plans. He takes Marcus' number and dials it with his mobile, so that Marcus will have his too. Esca doesn't have any experience with dating, but it feels an awful lot like they're setting up a date. Fucking hell.

"I'll see you tonight," Marcus says with a grin wide enough to be on a toothpaste advert.

"Erm, yeah. T'ra," Esca mumbles back.

\-----

When he heads back under the bike shed, Liathan's pissed himself laughing. No, seriously—that's Lie-Lie's bloody rank piss that's stained his jeans dark blue right at the crotch.

"You're bloody something, you know that?" Esca gripes, though he's unable to hide a smirk at how utterly ridiculous Liathan is. Helps him up into a sitting position, then squats in front of him. "You gonna be okay? I'm heading back to class."

Liathan covers his face with his hands, shoulders shaking. "Holy Jesus Mary and Joseph," he manages. "Everyone's right. You're a bloody faggot, aren't you?"

Esca feels the blood drain from his face. It’s no worse than the usual slurs Liathan will sling at Esca, but it's too much, too soon after he's bloody well enacted the opening sequence to a skin flick by offering to give Marcus a massage.

"Wait!" Liathan shouts, hand outstretched but Esca's moved away. "I don't care if you like it up the bunghole! People do all sorts of fucked up shit! You'll always be my wittle Eschka."

Esca grabs his rucksack off the grass. "Fuck off, cunt," Esca says, nudging Liathan in the shoulder with his foot so that his giggling friend topples backwards, hopefully into his own puddle of urine. "I'll show you much of a faggot I am when I fuck Davina in her car after school."

"Yeah, yeah," Liathan laughs him off. "I'll see you later, FagCunoval."

"She likes it doggy-style!" Esca shouts back, storming off to his next lesson.

\-----

After school, Esca makes up some excuse to Davina about leaving his shit at their place. Lie-Lie's still too baked to notice that Esca is lying right out his arse, so Davina shrugs and takes them both back to their house.

No, strike that. Davina takes them back to their mansion. Cos the thing is, Liathan might be a fucking chav of a little swot, but it ent real. None of it's real, cos Lie-Lie née Liathan Brendan Rhona III is actually about as loaded as one can get. Davina only works a job cos she wants the experience, cos she’s lovely. Not because she needs the money.

Nah, the Rhonas are proper loaded. Their da owns something like half the city through real estate, which also means he's bloody busy and could give a flying fuck that his wife's up the duff again or whatever.

Which is why Lie-Lie's so fucked up in the head. Which is why him an Esca are friends.

Esca's about to follow Davina through the front entrance, but Liathan blocks him with his arm. "Wait," he says, sounding dangerously serious. "Stop."

"Whatsit?" Esca asks.

"Why you comin' over, Esca? What are you doing?"

Esca bounces from foot to foot.

He's coming over to ask Mrs. Rhona the best way to massage a hurt leg, maybe pick up a bottle of oil cos you can't do a proper rub-down without it. He's coming over so he can go to Marcus' right after, prepared to make his leg hurt less, and to do it right. It's just fair, all right? He feels bloody guilty about kicking Marcus to his knees now that he knows about the injury. Hopes he didn't fuck anything up permanently.

Ha! Esca can _see_ hisself, he _knows_ what bloody rot it all is, the thoughts in his head. Proper truth, he doesn’t know _what_ he’s doing.

"I come over all the time," Esca says cagily.

"Yeah but, you said you left something in my room. You didn't leave anything in my room."

Fucking hell, Liathan gets scary Rain Man sometimes while he's flying high. "S'wot?" Esca says, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I wanna come over. Liverpool's gonna get their arse handed to them against the Gunners, which means Robert's gonna be cross-eyed pissed and double pissed off, which means he's gonna fuck up the closest thing to him, which is gonna be me if you don't let me come in right now. An I don't wanna get fucked right now, m'whole body still bloody hurts from Monday."

Liathan blinks at him slowly, as if considering Esca's words. Esca can't imagine what conclusion he's come to, though, as Liathan's eyes suddenly turn nervous. He leans in to whisper, "Fuck, Esca. You should'a said, mate."

Esca licks his lips. "Said what, now?"

"That Robert's abusing you like that."

Esca frowns. "You know he smacks me around a bit, so what?"

"No, I mean." Liathan looks over his shoulder, where the gardener across the street is hosing the grounds of a gated house. "I didn't know he abused you like _that_. Like, you know." Liathan makes an 'o' with his thumb and forefinger, then thrusts in and out of it with his opposite index finger.

It takes a bit to make the connection, then Esca's cuffing his stoner fucktard of a friend 'round the head with a half-hearted backhand. "You're something, you know?"

"Is that why you don't like fanny no more?" Liathan asks, louder but no less serious. Starting to sound a bit upset, in fact. "Fuck, Esca. Don't let Robert turn you into a turd burglar!"

"Bloody hell," Esca laughs. "The fuck they put in that skunk, today?" He shoves past Liathan and enters the Rhona house.

\-----

Esca catches Mrs. Rhona in the courtyard. It's chilly out, it being October and all, but she's got a heavy wool shawl wrapped 'round her shoulders as she sips her tea, reading a magazine about clothes or makeup or summat.

"Mrs. Rhona?" Esca asks, knocking on the glass door politely, though he's already stepped onto the cobblestone outside. She beckons him over.

Mrs. Rhona isn't a warm lady. Even with seven kids, she's about as maternal as Jeannine is—meaning about as maternal as a spider that eats her own young—but at least she's never looked down on Esca even though he's a swill-mouthed orphan who lives on an estate Mr. Rhona could probably buy ten times over, that is, if he wanted to, but no one in their bloody right minds would bloody _want_ to, cos it's a shite estate full of broke-ass cars parked on weedy lawns and dirty plastic flamingos out front.

Esca declines the tea that Liathan's mum offers to ring for. But he does ask her for tips on how to relax a leg that's acting up a year out from being broken all over. She's succinct, but tells him enough so that Esca can feel less like a charlatan when he goes over to Marcus' and more like he can actually help the naffin' Roman.

Mrs. Rhona directs Esca to her bathroom upstairs, where she keeps extra bottles of herbal massage oil and other products from the spa inside a cabinet. Esca opens the wrong one at first; sees two neat rows of orange prescription bottles, lined up like marching soldiers inside her medicine cabinet. Quickly shuts it and tries the next little door, relieved when it's filled with what she said it'd be—spa supplies—and pulls out the first bottle of oil he sees.

All right. Armed and loaded. Esca descends the main staircase, taking two steps at a time until he's gone underground into the basement, where Liathan's room is.

Inside the gloom, he can barely make out Liathan's silhouette playing video games on a small telly.

"Ey fuckhead, I'm heading out," Esca calls from the doorway. 

"Don't let Robert pound you in the arse unless you like it," Liathan replies, his voice monotone. His attention's onscreen, where he's killing Nazis with a grenade launcher. His high must’a worn off, cos he’s back to being a right arsehole.

Esca rolls his eyes. "See you tomorrow," he says. Liathan waves him off.

All right, then. Esca checks his mobile. It's five o'clock.

He ent nervous. He isn't.

\-----

"Where should I..." Marcus looks around his bedroom, Esca's eyes following his. 

It's a pretty large room. Not as big as Liathan's original bedroom (before he relocated to the basement, on the grounds he didn't want to "live in wealth like the intern-fucking, parasitic money-sucking dicksuck like his father, this perfectly sound basement would suit him much better, thank you very much"), but Marcus' room is still big enough to hold about five cars inside it. 

There's a queen bed in the corner—the comfort of which Esca has tested personally, just a few days back, though he'd been too fucked up to really notice the quality of its bedsprings or whatever—and a modern-looking birch desk in the other corner. A standard weight machine hangs out near the bed, which feels so bloody _Marcus_ , it don’t even stick out. 

All the bits and bobs about the room feel like the Roman, in fact—sturdy and practical, with traces of warmth in places you wouldn’t expect. Like the single framed photo of what must be his parents on the wall, a younger Marcus with them. They’re in an orchard of some sort, trees all around, swollen bags of fruit crowding their ankles. 

Marcus’ laptop has a rugby sticker on it, some Italian crest Esca doesn’t recognize. On the nightstand, the surface is completely clear but for the leather-band watch Marcus normally has on.

“Do you want a chair?” Marcus asks, sounding rather at a loss.

"Nah, I’ll be moving around,” Esca says, realizing he probably looks like he’s casing the joint. He draws his eyes away and picks the obvious place for Marcus to sit. “You can go on the bed. Wait, no—" He’s nearly forgotten how bloody gay this whole thing is; Esca doesn't need to make it worse. "Never mind. The bench," he amends, gesturing to the weight machine.

Marcus nods amiably and lumbers over. His leg is clearly still giving him trouble; he winces as he lets himself down, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bench, barbells to the right of his head. He looks up at Esca, blinking expectantly.

He's facing the first-story window, so the setting sun bathes Marcus in low, warm light. He looks even more tan than usual. Kind of orange, actually. His eyes are practically glowing.

"What now?" Marcus asks.

Esca coughs. "Face the other way," he says, making his voice as professional as he can. "Like you're gonna lift weights."

Marcus obeys, turning to Esca, straddling the narrow, padded bench. The sight of it makes Esca's palms sweat for some reason. He tries to be discrete about wiping them against the sides of his legs as he steps over to the foot of the bench.

"Okay, so. Lie down." Esca hopes his voice doesn't sound as strangled as it does in his ears as Marcus lets himself fall back.

Luckily, Marcus is wearing shorts, so Esca doesn't have to make him take his trousers off or anything just to get to his leg. Jesus, his face is getting red just thinking about it.

He does, however, have to get Marcus' trainers off. Notices how Marcus tenses up as Esca kneels down.

"Jus’ gotta get these off," he explains, working one shoe from Marcus foot, throwing it over his shoulder.

"Should I put some music on?" Marcus chuckles. "Barry White, maybe?"

Esca's bloody thankful Marcus can't see his face right now. "Fuck off," he says, yanking Marcus' dirty sock off and tossing it towards his head, which earns a cross between a snort and a giggle.

Jesus Christ. Esca rubs his face with his shoulder. "Stay bloody still," he says, working off Marcus' other shoe and sock.

Done. Marcus is ready. He's turned quite still, in fact. Esca is ready. He's got the bottle of oil next to the bench, and a small rag soaking in a bucket of hot water on the other side.

Well, nothing for it, right? Esca got himself into this bloody situation. He's gonna see it through.

"Leg up," he says, letting Marcus know what's coming next, the way Mrs. Rhona coached Esca. Marcus' leg is heavy in Esca's hands, muscled and solid like it ent broken in three places with probably enough metal inside it to stick magnets to.

Esca pulls the injured leg towards him, sets it onto the bench so that the sole of Marcus' foot is facing him. 

There's a tiny mole on Marcus' big toe. There's a slightly larger mole on the ball of his foot. Esca wants to draw a line between the two.

"What, do my feet smell?" Marcus asks. He's joking, but he sounds a little apprehensive too.

"Not any more than you normally do," Esca replies easily, reaching for the oil. With a little _snick,_ he pops the lid open.

Squirts a dollop of oil into a cupped palm.

The feel of it—slightly clammy, but perfectly greasy and quick to warm—is so familiar. The smell of it, faint but there, herbal like sage or whatever it is people put next to roasted potatoes—is also familiar.

How had he not fucking recognized the bottle when he grabbed it?

It's familiar cos this is stuff Esca uses to wank with, and now he’s gone half-hard without a beat. Fucking hell. Must be that Pavolian thing or whatever, something about dogs, like you're so used to a particular trigger that your body anticipates what's next without even checking if it's okay by you.

This ent okay by Esca; he's not about to have a wank. He's _trying_ to be bloody professional about remedying the damage he'd done to Marcus the day before. This is NOT the bloody time to be sporting a stiffy.

"What are you doing down there?" Marcus' voice filters over.

Fuck. Esca slaps his hands together and vigorously rubs them together, heating up the oil between his palms.

"Shut up and think of the queen," Esca says curtly. He pulls his palms apart with a little squelching sound, then promptly grabs Marcus 'round the ankle with two hands—

Wills his half-mast erection to make itself scarce—

and slides his palms up Marcus' scarred calf, quickly, almost roughly. The dusting of dark hairs on Marcus' leg catches the oil, and by the time Esca's reached his knee he has to go back to the little bottle and squeeze out another handful.

The bottle makes an obscene sound when he lets go and air gets into the tube, propelling another whiff of sage. Fuck, he can practically feel his hand on himself, if he just wrapped his fingers around his dick and gave it a slow, hard pull… 

He's just thankful Marcus' eyes are on the ceiling, where they'll stay for the next half hour.

So instead of his own dick like he wants, Esca reaches for Marcus' thigh, thick as any rugby player’s, and glides his palms over the smooth, built muscle. When he digs a little too hard Marcus grunts; Esca eases up, but not too much or else it won't do him any good.

"Don't be such a pussy," Esca says, taking his embarrassment out on Marcus. "It's just a massage. I'm not trying to re-break your leg or nuffink."

"Dude, it _hurts."_

"That, right there!" Esca pulls his hands back and rises up on his knees, making sure his tented denims are still out of sight before catching Marcus' eye with a little wave. " 'Dude.' What sort of piss-poor Roman says _dude?_ You're not even from bloody Italy, are you?"

Two spots of colour rise up on Marcus' cheekbones. "I am too. I just grew up on a military base, okay? But my entire family lives in Rome. Well, Uncle and Father excepted." He turns shifty, eyes wandering away.

Esca takes pity. Lord knows he doesn't want to discuss his own family matters with anyone, much less a near-stranger he’s only known since Monday. No matter how strangely comfortable Esca feels around said stranger. 

He rocks back onto his heels and proceeds to massage the bunched up muscles of Marcus' calf.

"So. American, then? Bloody Yank."

"I'm not—" Marcus' next words evaporate, taken over by a little gasp. Esca smirks. Oh, he knows. He's bloody good at this. Furrows his brows and gets in real deep, kneading the knotted ligaments just above Marcus' knee.

"God. You're good at this." Marcus sounds out of breath.

Esca smirks. "Was just thinking the same thing meself."

"Cocky bastard."

"Rightfully so."

The only response he gets is a bitten-off noise, which is gratifying enough that Esca wants more. So he pulls out all the stops. 

Adds a bit more oil onto his hands. Places his thumbs at the arch of Marcus' foot, and _digs._

"Oh..."

Esca massages around there a bit, moving a little to the left, then the right, then up some. He's good at the build-up too, knows just when to lightly trail his thumbs down, inciting a small spasm and a choked laugh. Counters it with a hard push into the heel of Marcus' foot and drags all the way up to the tips of his toes, earning a low rumble. Finally, Esca indulges himself and connects the two moles on Marcus’ foot with a teasing swipe of his left thumb.

"Jesus," Marcus yelps, foot jumping.

"Hmm?" Esca smiles, kneeling up a bit to check Marcus' expression at the other end of the bench. He's pleased to find Marcus in obvious bliss, lips pursed in an ecstatic little 'o' shape, like he’s seconds from drooling on himself. Attractive.

Even still, something about the sight makes Esca's dick twitch. God, he's getting off on all this power, ent he? Marcus is like putty under his hands, and it feels damned good, Esca won't lie.

He's fully hard now, not least because Marcus has taken to groaning every time Esca does something he likes. He started off quiet, restrained, like he couldn't help the noises coming out of him but was damned well trying to. It's been fifteen or twenty minutes now, though, and it's like Marcus doesn't even realize how he sounds no more.

It feels like a bloody game. What movement will make what sound? How silly can Esca make Marcus sound?

"Fuck," Marcus says, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Esca," he whinges.

Pretty damned silly, Esca thinks, with no small amount of pride. He inches his fingers higher up, walking them up like itsy bitsy spiders, cos his fingers are starting to get sore from all the deep tissue crap. He's just playing now, really. Marcus' thigh jerks, kicking up the hem of his loose basketball shorts and revealing his tan line. Olive skin gives way to pale territory, the border of which Esca traces with his thumb, smearing oil across it like he's painting in colour.

"I'm getting tired," Esca complains, flicking his eyes up to see if Marcus is even paying attention, cos he's gone completely still, no longer responsive.

His eyes snag halfway up, however.

Through Marcus' shorts, Esca can see the mound of Marcus' bits. He isn't entirely hard, but not entirely soft, either.

It's automatic to snatch his hands back, face burning.

Fuck. That wasn't what this was about. Forget the fact he's excited, too, Esca's trousers trapping his cock in a denim prison.

"Esca," Marcus says, sounding panicked. He sits up as he yanks down on the hem of his t-shirt, trying to hide his crotch, but it's no use.

"Shit, I'm sorry," Marcus says, his face bright red. "I didn't know. I mean—"

"Forget it," Esca says, hunching over to hide his own uncomfortable state. He shoves his hands into the bucket next to the bench, water gone lukewarm, and scrubs his palms free of massage oil with the towel that's in there. Wrings it out, splashing onto himself and a bit onto the carpet, then slaps the wet towel onto Marcus' thigh with a loud _splat._

"Look, it's no big deal. Happens all the time," Esca babbles, scrubbing Marcus down with two hands, rough like he's sanding down a block of wood.

"All the time?" Marcus frowns. "Like, with other people?"

"Yeah, sure," Esca says. He drops the towel into the bucket, getting more water on himself. "I mean, not me personally, no. Not me. But Liathan says so. He’d know, yeah?"

"Liathan?" Marcus asks dubiously.

"He's a right naffin' retard, but sometimes it ent all bullshit."

"Right," Marcus says uncertainly. His face is still flushed, but at least his stiffy's gone down. Not that Esca checked. But those shorts are bloody thin, don't leave nothing to the imagination, s'all he's saying.

Esca tosses the greasy bottle of massage oil into his rucksack, then picks up the used bucket of water. "I gotta go," he says, standing up too quickly, water sloshing onto his trouser leg. "Robert's gonna be pissed I got home so late." Also, Esca's dick isn't cooperating like Marcus' is, because it's still half-interested. And while Marcus has a reason for his body to betray him—Esca? No bloody excuse for getting turned on by touching another bloke.

Fuck's sake. Esca swallows hard and turns around. "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah? Hope your leg feels better. Sleep well. Erm. I mean, I hope you can sleep, cos you're right cranky otherwise. Don't want you taking it out on me again in the morning."

"Wait," Marcus says, sounding upset. “How are you going to get home? If you wait two seconds, I can grab my keys—“

Trapped in that little box of a car, all dark and cosy, Marcus taking up the entire space with his huge, footballer build as Esca desperately tries to wile away a rogue erection? Ha bloody ha. No merci.

"How you think I got here? Took the bus," Esca says, already edging his way out Marcus' bedroom door. "And I can take it again. I'll see you tomorrow."

He dashes down the corridor, going out the way he came. He thinks he hears Marcus call after him, but he can't stay another bloody second, he just can’t. Marcus might notice what’s going on below Esca’s belt. As if this weren't awkward enough, already.

Outside the front door, Esca tosses out the dirty water into the neatly manicured hedges, then swings the bucket over his shoulder like a bookbag.

The bus stop is a couple blocks down. As Esca rounds up to it, his mobile buzzes in his back pocket.

Esca swings the bucket to his left hand and pulls out his mobile. His default ringtone of _Whodunnit?_ growls to life, Eve Libertine’s screaming vocals sounding crap on such tiny speakers. Marcus' name blinks innocently on the outer screen.

Esca deliberates picking up, but he takes too long and eventually the mobile rings out. Esca wonders if Marcus will leave a voicemail.

He doesn’t.

But then a text comes through, and Esca flips the screen up.

_Sorry for making you uncomfortable. It was just a really good masage, didn't mean anything. You can copy my notes tomorrow and i wont even complane :)_

Esca wets his lips, unsure of what the tugging sensation in his chest means. It feels strange. Marcus does bloody weird things to him. 

He snaps his mobile shut and doesn't reply. He'll play it by ear tomorrow. Hopefully his brains will come back before then, and he can function like a human fucking being again.

\-----

As soon as Esca reaches his drive, he smells trouble.

The lights are all on in the house. Above the front door, too. Esca briefly considers climbing through his second-story window, but that’s daft—it’s his own bloody house, innit? Why the fuck should he be sneaking in like a bloody thief in the night?

Squares his shoulders and marches up the front entrance. But before he can even get his keys out, the door snatches open.

It’s Robert, his face ruddy as a red balloon. “The fuck time’s it?” he splutters, breath reeking of alcohol. “Just now you get home, Esca? I needed you to pick up some bloody toilet paper, but the grocery’s fucking closed now, innit?”

“It’s called a mobile, Robert,” Esca grouses, squeezing past the great slug. “You could’a rang me if you weren’t too fucking lazy to get off your arse and pick up the phone.”

“The _fuck_ you say to me?”

Esca picks up his feet, hoping to avoid a fight, but Robert can be awful quick for such a fat bastard. Fists a hand into Esca’s leather jacket and yanks him back by the scruff like he’s a fucking dog or summat.

“I _asked_ you a question, you ungrateful little shit.”

Esca steels himself with a sharp inhale through his nose and says, “I called you a lazy, sodding arsehole—“

He expects the backhand across his cheek, ‘nuff so that he moves with it, absorbs some of its bite. Pulls his head right back and stares insolently into Robert’s glinting, ice-blue eyes.

“Where were you, anyway?” Robert slurs, pulling Esca’s face near his. Bloody disgusting; Robert’s face is all dried out from the oncoming winter, and he’s got white crusties in the corners of his mouth and on his chin. “You smell like—like trees, or summat.”

Must be the scent of the massage oil, still lingering. “Out with Liathan. We were naffin’ about at the park,” Esca lies. Doesn’t know why, he just does. “Now can I go upstairs?”

Robert looks Esca up and down, like he’s just noticing all the crap Esca’s laden down with, his rucksack and the bloomin’ bucket still knocking about. His thick fingers loosen in Esca’s collar, giving him a shove towards the stairs instead.

“ _Liathan,_ ” he snorts. His voice is quieter, like he’s talking to his self, but Esca can still hear him en route to the staircase. “Should’a figured you was out shagging your boyfriend in the woods. Fucking nancy boy.”

For fuck’s sake. All fucking day long, Esca gets shit from people. Gets shit from Ronald and his rugby shitheads—gets it from Lie-Lie too, hell. And now Robert? He’s bloody sick of it. Bloody, fucking, _sick_ of it.

“So what?” Esca snaps, whirling around. He throws his rucksack and bucket onto the stained carpet, twin thuds at either side of him. “So fucking _wot_ if I have a boyfriend?”

Fuck. He dunnae what he’s saying, words taking right over. “So maybe I do. Maybe I like it up the arse. Maybe other boys like it up the arse, and I don’t mind giving it to ‘em. So I ask youse, so fucking what? What you gonna do about it?”

Robert turns a dark shade of aubergine, the colour crawling all the way down the stretched-out neck of his grubby white tee. His face is twitching, like he wants to say something arse-rippingly rude, but hasn’t quite landed on the verbage just yet.

“Nothing to say to that, hm Robert? That’s wot I thought. Cos you can’t do anything to me. It ent a crime no more, being a poof. And if you kill me you’ve got Child Services to deal with. Won’t get no more of that extra dosh at the end of the month, yeah? And how’s you gonna pay for your fucking Tetley’s if not by the hand’a the government—“

Robert launches himself forward, his apish arms swinging towards Esca, two burly fists coming, one-two, one-two. Esca dances away, hopping backwards, tripping over the foot of the staircase so that he lands on his arse, slide-thumping down a step.

“I’ll _kill_ you,” Robert roars, coming after him. Shit.

Esca scrambles around and yanks himself up with the banister, gets his feet under him as he dashes up, two steps at a time. He doesn’t expect a thrown bucket though, which slams right into his lower back, wooden handle of it smacking into his ribs, bloody fuck.

Esca crumples into his side, wincing as he feels the tender bones cry out in agony. Fuck’s sake, they were just starting to heal up. He needs to keep moving, though. The landing’s only a few feet away. If he can just get into his bedroom he can lock himself in, and Robert usually leaves him alone after that. With a heaving limp, Esca hobbles up another stair—

Behind him, Robert gets a meaty hand around one of Esca’s ankles and pulls him down, easily enough cos Esca’s maybe a third of Robert’s weight. Goes south like a right rag doll, in fact, every edge of the wooden stairs making itself known to Esca’s chest, his stomach, his knees, unforgiving in their greeting as he’s dragged down the stairs.

“I don’t give a right bloody shit about Child Services! You’re a sick little monster, and I’ve had enough of you—“

Fuck, Robert’s as livid as Esca’s ever heard him. For the first time, fear creeps into his chest, cold and clutching. He tries to shake Robert off his trouser leg, but the great brute’s got both sausage arms around him, determined to haul Esca to the bottom of the stairs.

“Ge’roff me,” Esca gasps, kicking his trapped leg. Might as well be stuck under a lorry though, the good it does him. His voice ratchets up an octave. “For fuck’s sake Robert, stop it!”

God, he wishes he had his blade. Never should’a given it away. He could stab Robert in his right ruddy face, that’d make him let go, for sure. Fucking hell—

Grasping about with his hands above him. Esca squeezes his eyes shut. Fingers desperate and searching, they finally bump into the edge of the bucket. Doesn’t give it any thought—wraps his hand around the edge and swings it down, right into Robert’s scrunched-up, hateful face.

With a bellow like a wounded beast, Robert’s hands fly up and Esca kicks into them, Robert slapping his own face, no appendages to catch himself as he tumbles backwards.

Esca doesn’t turn around to look. He can hear it, all right? The crash and rolling tumble is e-fucking-nough to know what’s happening back there, down at the bottom of the stairs, that it can’t be good. The cheap walls of the house shudder with the whale’s descent.

Esca gets to his feet and runs up to the landing. Swings a right and gets into his bedroom, slams the door behind him with a bang, hard enough to make a frame fall down somewhere in the corridor, the shattering of glass splintering the air.

 _Fuck,_ Esca thinks.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Esca paces, best as he can, holding the right side of his ribs and wincing with every breath taken. 

He stops to rub his face with his hands. Feels something wet and warm smear down his cheeks.

He gets in front of his mirror and checks what it is. It’s blood, he thinks. It’s all over his hands, anyway. His shirt is black so he can’t see the extent of the damage, but the fabric’s wet, sticking to the side of his ribs. He can’t be arsed to check it right now, though, it’s going numb, anyway.

There’s no noise from downstairs, not a peep. Esca never thought he’d see the day he actually _wanted_ to hear Robert clumping about.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He jostles out his mobile. His hands are shaking, making it hard for him to type out to Liathan:

_im comin ovver_

and off it goes with a little _swoosh_ , envelope flying away into the tiny, pixelated stars on his mobile screen. Esca flips the lid shut, sticks it into his back pocket again.

His rucksack’s downstairs. Esca ent going back for it though, no way in hell. So he grabs the only things he can think of—his iPod and charger, a clean shirt, clean pants. Lopes into the bathroom next door and plucks his toothbrush from the cup on the sink.

That’s it then, innit? Esca stumbles back into his bedroom, looking round to see if he needs anything else. Nothing stands out, though; it’s all just third-hand furniture and clothes from Tesco. Four horrifying years in this little shithole, and all he’s got to show for it can be stuffed into his jacket pockets. The only things that ever mattered to him got left behind in Kingston, burned to rubble in his old house along with his two parents, his two brothers.

Outside, he hears Robert’s clunker pull onto the lawn, the bumper dragging across the kerb with a loud, familiar scrape.

Jeannine’s home. No time to be daydreaming. Esca throws his spare shirt over his shoulder and steps onto his futon bed. Wrenches the window open—normally a simple affair now made difficult as pain lances through his side—but it’s got to be done, and so Esca does it. 

He pulls the glass up a couple feet. Enough for him to duck his head under, curl his body through the gap, and step onto the pitched roof that overlooks their neighbour’s tiny, overgrown garden.

With practiced motions, Esca skids down to the edge of the roof and lowers himself overboard, wincing as his torso’s stretched taut before letting go of the gutter. He drops down about five feet, trainers squeaking on wet grass.

He’s behind the house. But even from here, he can hear Jeannine’s shriek.

With a determined set of his mouth, Esca lowers his head and starts the ten-mile trek to Liathan’s.

\-----

It’s two in the morning.

“Bloody hell,” Liathan greets him at the door, voice rough with sleep. “It’s called ducking, Esca.”

“Shut up,” he replies wearily, too tired for swapping insults with Liathan. “Just let me in.”

Liathan obliges with a sidestep, letting Esca limp past.

“For fuck’s sake Esca, you’re bleeding onto our tile.”

“I’ll clean it in the morning,” Esca says. Only realizes Liathan was saying that out of horror, that he’s actually proper concerned about Esca, cos Liathan goes to grab a towel and some bandages from the nearest bathroom.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Liathan says, after he’s caught up to Esca halfway down to the basement. “I could’a gotten Daffy’s car, picked you up somewhere.”

“Didn’t want to bother you.” Esca blinks, concentrating hard on making it down the stairs in one piece.

One step.

‘nother step. 

Easy, now.

He hears Liathan say his name behind him, but it sounds like an echo, bouncing inside his skull.

_Esca._

Then, quieter. _Esca!_

\-----

In the morning—

Scratch that. In the afternoon, when Esca finally wakes up, it’s cos his mobile’s buzzing by his ear.

Blearily wipes his nose, cracks open one eye. Luckily, it’s dark out so he can blink his way to consciousness without sunshine stabbing his pupils into morning shock. 

Looks ‘round himself and recognizes Liathan’s room. He’s on Lie-Lie’s squashy, two-seater sofa. No windows down here for light, just the red numbers of Liathan’s bedside clock and some other electric glows like deep-sea creatures trying to catch worms. The clock says it’s half-past three, nearly time for school to let out.

The mobile buzzes again, insistent. Esca gropes under his pillow for the offending device and checks the latest text.

It reads: _if you bite it, Daffy’ll cry, an then i’ll hafta come kick your rotting corpse._

Scrolls back to the preceding text that woke him up, also Liathan.

_still alive?_

Esca snorts a little, closing his mobile. But the outer screen stays lit. Two texts still unread.

They’re both from Marcus.

Esca rolls up with a groan, propping himself up to his elbows. The right side of his ribs throb with fire, but—after a cursory check—least his bones aren’t poking out. He just finds sloppily-applied gauze, stuck to his skin with Scotch tape.

He sits all the way up, thin blanket pooling over his thighs. Only then does Esca flip open his mobile again.

_Where r u?_

That one’s from the morning. The second message: _Is this about yesterday?_

That one’s from about an hour ago. Esca hits ‘reply’.

His fingers hover over the numbers, but he doesn’t know what to type. He could say ‘no’, that he didn’t skip school cos of Marcus bloody Aquila and their awkward non-date-that-felt-like-a-date. But then he’d have to explain why he wasn’t in class. And the idea of mentioning Robert makes him queasy. Fuck, he doesn’t even know if the bugger’s still alive, or if Esca’s gone and killed someone overnight.

The cursor flashes at him, slowly, lazily. Like it’s rolling its eyes at Esca, wondering why the bloody fuck he’s taking so long to bang a message out. It gives up on him, the screen going dark.

Esca mashes a button to get it bright again.

He ought to just make something up. That he’s come down with something, a cough, a fever; he’ll be back in no time. That he hasn’t given Marcus’ ill-timed boner a second thought since it happened (false). But then, he’d eventually have to go back to school to keep up the façade, and Esca ent doing that, no way. Thas the first place Jeannine would go to look for him.

His mobile powers down again. This time, Esca lets it. Claps his mobile shut and tosses it onto the coffee table with a clatter. Falls back against the sunken cushions of Liathan’s sofa and blows the fringe out of his eyes.

Better to say nothing at all than to sound like a complete twat.

Feeling tired again, Esca closes his eyes and rests awhile longer.

\-----

“Your boyfriend was asking after you,” Liathan says when he gets home. He throws his rucksack at Esca, who catches it with grimace. Rocks up all the same, swinging his legs over the side of the couch to sit up properly.

“What are you on about?” Esca asks, though he’s got a sneaky feeling he knows already.

“Your boyfriend. You know, the Italian Stallion. Tall as a tree—“ Liathan raises a cupped palm, so high he grazes the low ceiling with the backs of his knuckles. “Dumb as rocks. Wanking material for Kirby and all the other footballers after they found out he used to play fly-half for the number one team in Italy. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. Malarkey will be so heartbroken.”

“It’s _Marcus,_ you tosser. And he’s not my boyfriend,” Esca says, without real heat. “What did he ask you?”

Liathan whumps down onto the sofa, jostling Esca’s cushion from the force of it.

“Ey, you didn’t take these?” Liathan asks, reaching forward to pick up two tablets on the coffee table. “It’s codeine, man. Not even the generic shite. Swiped ‘em from Mum.”

“Didn’t see ‘em,” Esca says distractedly. “Well?”

Liathan shrugs, tossing back the little pink pills and swallowing audibly. 

“Well nuffink,” he says after. “He asked where you was. I called him a dago. Then Daffy arrived and I came home to you.” He makes a kissy face at Esca, who shoves him away.

Liathan just leans back on his couch, stretching out like a languid cat. “So,” he continues, propping his feet up on the low table. “Wot’s your plan? Much as I’d love to hear you bitch at me twenty-four-seven, you can’t stay here forever. Da wouldn’t let you. Hates freeloaders.”

“I ent a freeloader,” Esca says roughly. “This is just temporary, aye? I gotta make tracks, anyhow. Jeannine will eventually come looking for me here.”

“Well, I didn’t hear nuffink about no dead bastards today, so Robert’s probably still breathing. Shame, that.”

Relief courses through Esca’s body. “Never thought I’d be glad to hear that, but I am. I’d be right fucked if the plod was after me. Still, I can’t go home, thas for fucking sure.”

“So rent someplace.”

“M’not sixteen yet, not for another two weeks.” Esca turns to Liathan. “Maybe you can hide me here ‘til then. Your da wouldn’t have to find out.”

Liathan sits up. “What are you, Anne bloody Frank? I can’t do that, there’s about twenty other eyes and ears in this fucking household, you know that. Can’t bloody well keep you under my skirts, can I?”

“Eh,” Esca grunts, flopping onto his back. “Worth a try.”

“I can give you a couple days. After that you’re on your own.”

On his own, on his own. Esca’s always on his bloody own. 

Liathan slaps him upside the head.

“Ow!”

“Quit feeling sorry for yourself, it’s bloody annoying. Just bounce around ‘till then, yeah? Wot about Molly Aiken? She practically gags for your weenie whistle every time you’re within ten feet.”

Esca wrinkles his nose. “Gross. No. I’d rather sleep in the street.”

“Your foreign boyfriend, then?”

“Wot?” Esca looks at Liathan like he’s grown two heads. “I don’t—I barely know him, Jesus Christ,” he splutters.

Liathan laughs, slapping Esca hard on his back like he’s forgotten about Esca’s broken ribs, fucking ow.

“Quit it, you’ll make it start bleeding again,” Esca says, squirming away.

“Whinger.”

“Arsehole.”

Liathan pokes Esca in the ribs. It’s on the wrong side, luckily, but Esca yelps anyway and shoves Lie-Lie’s stupid, laughing face as far away from him as possible.


	3. Uncle Aquila is an Nutter Who Sounds Vaguely Rapey on the Phone But Can’t Sleep Without His Bunny Slippers

He winds up staying another two nights. Gets word from Liathan that Jeannine’s come ‘round Cottingswood High, as well as the Rhona household. The vultures are circling. He’s got to find a longer-term solution, and quick.

“What about school, though? You’ll want to graduate,” Davina says, dark eyebrows wrinkling prettily. She knows about Esca staying in their house. She’d insisted on taking him ‘out of that little rat hole for an afternoon’.

They’re currently sitting at an overpriced coffee shop at Whitney Quarter, a shopping centre full of overseas brands that Esca can’t pronounce. S’not usually Davina’s scene neither, but she said she wanted to treat him.

“I can always take my GCSEs,” Esca says easily. “But right now, I don’t need more cotton stuffed b’tween me ears, Davina. I need a job.”

It’s obvious she doesn’t like his answer, but it ent like Davina’s got a better suggestion. If she did, she would’a spoken up.

“I still think you should be finishing out the rest of the year with Liathan,” she says eventually.

“Yeah, well. I should have two parents and two brothers, a girlfriend and a garden and a sodding dog, but we can’t all have what we _should_ , can we?”

The words come out more bitter than Esca intends, and he quickly adds, “Sorry. I just. Haven’t been having the greatest luck, lately.”

Davina says nothing. Just puts her hand over his and it’s cool, dry. Reassuring. Esca squeezes back, holding on more desperately than he really wants to. But he lets himself, just this once.

“Esca?”

Esca pulls his hand back, turning around at the sound of his name.

“Marcus?” he breathes, blinking widely. “The fuck you doing here?”

“It’s Saturday…I’m shopping with my uncle.” Marcus’ eyes flick between him and Davina. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Wot’s it look like, I’m having tea,” Esca says, feeling his face heat up. Bugger fuck, he’s been avoiding Marcus’ texts all week. Not even on purpose—s’just that every time he goes to reply, the very idea of having to explain how he’s squatting in Liathan’s basement, too broke to go out, too scared to go home—it’s bloody embarrassing, is what it is. He figured Marcus would get bored eventually and let it go, but he hasn’t yet.

Davina’s sudden hand on Esca’s knee makes him realize he’s bouncing his leg under the table. He stops, with concerted effort.

“I thought you needed more clothes,” an approaching voice says. “Why are we stopped here?” It’s an older man who arrives, stooped in the shoulders but looking spry enough as he heartily claps Marcus on the shoulder and stops beside him. “Ah,” he murmurs, eyes trailing Marcus’, where they land on Esca. “A friend?”

Esca wipes his nose.

Next to him, Davina stirs her lukewarm coffee.

“Oh, sorry,” Marcus says. “Uncle, this is Esca. The one I told you about?”

Esca blinks.

“Esca, this is my uncle. He’s been out of the house the times you came over, otherwise I would’ve introduced you earlier.”

Next to him, Davina gives a little wave. “Davina,” she says, perfectly at ease. “Esca’s friend.” Marcus gives his own name in return, but doesn’t sound nearly as friendly.

Belatedly, Esca notices that Marcus’ uncle has his hand outstretched. “Oh, erm. Good to meet you. Sir,” Esca mumbles, rising half out of his seat to shake his hand.

“Please, no need to get up. And just ‘Aquila’ will do. I’m much too young to be getting called ‘sir,’” he says with a toothy grin.

Esca smiles back, thin-lipped. Bloody hell, he never knows how to act around other people’s parents and the like.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind picking up an espresso while we’re here,” Aquila says. “You keep your friend company, Marcus. I’ll be right back.”

He strolls into the coffee shop, leaving the three of them among the exterior seating. Thank God Davina’s here. Hopefully her presence will deter Marcus from asking any questions—

“You know,” Davina says, drawing both Esca and Marcus’ attention. “I could do with a biscuit. Fancy anything, Esca? Marcus?”

Esca shakes his head, eyes saucer-wide.

With an innocent smile, she stands up from seat and flips her long, brunette hair over one shoulder, then follows Aquila inside.

Fuck’s sake. Esca’s beginning to understand why Lie-Lie’s always calling Davina a right scheming wench. The description never really made sense until now.

Behind him, Marcus clears his throat. He’s almost afraid to look.

“Esca,” Marcus says.

“Yeah?” he asks guiltily, turning in his seat. Rears back a bit when he realizes Marcus has sat down, entirely too close for comfort across the small, round table. Jesus, Esca’s almost forgotten how bloody huge the Roman is. Their knees bump under the table.

“Where have you been?” Marcus asks, sounding hurt.

For God’s sake, Esca does NOT want to be doing this. Can’t a man be left alone with his troubles, for crying out loud? And if Esca’s got to have this embarrassing conversation, must he do it to the wretched melodies of Kenny bloody G playing overhead?

“I’ve been around,” Esca says evasively.

“Have you gotten my texts?”

“Erm. No?” Esca tries.

“I’m not stupid, you know.” Marcus pauses. “Also, you’re a really bad liar. You’re supposed to look someone in the eye when you’re lying.”

Fine. Esca looks. Marcus has a leaf in his hair, the daft bugger.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Marcus probes.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because.” Esca drums his fingers on the tabletop. His foot’s started bouncing again, has to physically put his hand on his thigh to keep from wearing a hole through the ground. “Cos I don’t want to.”

“Look,” Marcus wets his lips and leans in. “If this has anything to do with the last time we hung out—“

“It hasn’t got anything to do with that,” Esca says, feeling his face go bright red. “So will you drop it? I haven’t thought twice about Wednesday, why do you keep bloody bringing it up?”

Marcus makes a face like he’s been slapped. Esca feels like a right arsehole now, so he explains hurriedly, “I haven’t been to school cos I _can’t,_ you see. They’ll find me there. And they’ll make me go with them. I’d rather die than go back. So you see, it’s just the way it is now, I won’t be in class for awhile, Marcus. So find someone else to pester. I hear the footballers have crowned you Ronald’s successor, so off you go, then.” Esca makes a shoo-ing gesture and clicks his tongue as he would to a horse. “Off you go.”

Marcus sets his mouth in a firm line, and Esca knows he’s about to get an earful. Grabs his stone-cold tea with both hands, slurps it down if only to cover his face as Marcus growls.

“Jesus, Esca. If I was worried before, I’m about ready to call the cops for you now. So you might as well tell me what’s going on, ‘cause I’ll find out anyway. Who’s after you? And where would they—“

“Ahem,” Davina clears her throat. Marcus trails off, but he keeps watching Esca, jaw spasming methodically like he’s just barely keeping from shouting, with or without an audience. When he finally looks away, Esca does too.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Davina says, looking mildly embarrassed. “But I’ve paid up. And I think your uncle wants to get a move-on.”

“Me too,” Esca says abruptly. He pushes back his chair with a steel screech, the echo of it loud but lost among the bustle of the weekend crowd.

Marcus swallows visibly, standing up as well. He looks torn, like maybe he wants to protest, or shackle Esca to the table and get some answers. On the other hand, everyone’s staring at him. So finally, Marcus drops his eyes. The leaf is still in his hair, red like all the aspens turning season outside.

Esca reaches forward and plucks the bloody thing out of Marcus’ hair, lets it flutter to the tiled ground.

Marcus takes it the wrong way. “I’ll see you later?” he asks hopefully.

Esca pulls back, feeling sorry he did it. “Maybe,” he says, but his tone clearly means _no_. 

Because no, Marcus won’t see him later. Marcus won’t be having anything to with any of this, cos it’s all a bit fucked.

This is Esca’s problem. He won’t be dragging anyone down with him.

“Pleasure meeting you all,” Davina says, and Marcus’ uncle says something glib in response before they all part.

\-----

Esca’s in the loo taking a piss, still at Whitney Quarter, when his mobile rings.

He glances at it irritably, trying to finish up. The vibrating is making his arse cheek go numb.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, shaking off and tucking himself back in his pants. Yanks the mobile out and flips it open.

“Aye?” he asks curtly.

“Is this Esca?”

Esca cradles the mobile with his shoulder and goes to the tap, rinsing his hands off. “Who wants to know?” he asks suspiciously.

“It’s Aquila. Marcus’ uncle. We met about an hour ago.”

Esca wipes his hands on his trousers ‘till they’re dry enough to grab his mobile again. He switches ears.

“Oh,” he says, frowning. “How did you get my number?”

“Marcus has it, doesn’t he?”

“And he’s going around, giving it to anyone who asks?” 

“Oh, well. Not exactly.”

Discomfited, Esca walks out of the loo. Sets off in the direction of Davina, where he’d her left inside a clothes shop.

“Listen, no disrespect. But what d’you want?”

“Cut right to the chase, I like that,” Aquila chuckles.

Esca finds a bench near Davina’s shop and settles himself on it, resting his elbows on his knees. “So?”

“So, young man. I’d like to offer you a job.”

Esca runs his hand over his mouth. God damn it, Davina. She must’a said something to him, back when they were inside the coffee shop together. “How do you mean?”

“Thing is, I’ve been looking for an extra set of hands to help out around the house. Nothing in particular, it’s just our housekeeper is getting a bit on in the years and when Marcus moved in last week, he’s had twice as much work to do. I don’t want to keep overworking the poor man.”

Esca scratches the end of his nose. “So I’d be doing what, like. Cleaning dishes or summat?”

“Perhaps. That, some cleaning, some laundry. Yard work too, though we have a gardener who comes once a week for the heavy duty stuff.”

Okay, Esca can work with this. “All right,” he says slowly. “But if you don’t mind me asking…why me? Why not find, like, a proper professional to do it?”

“Oh, I tried some agencies,” Aquila says, but then comes a muffled noise like a hand over the speaker. _Aren’t those a little short on you?_ Esca hears, before the sound clarity comes back. 

“Sorry, I’m still with Marcus. But to answer your question, no one’s been able to commit to the kind of hours I’m looking for so far.”

“Well, I’m still in school, aren’t I?” Esca hedges. Not strictly relevant, but he wants to see just how much Davina’s told the man about his situation. the bloody gossip. “What makes you think I can do the hours?”

“Dear boy,” Aquila says, an edge of sternness weaving between his words. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Your friend Davina is worried about you, so I suggest you drop the pretence.”

Feeling chastised, Esca lowers his eyes and starts picking at a small hole on the knee of his denims. “Fine,” he finally says. “I can work whatever hours are needed. But how much are you going to pay me for it?”

“There’s a lad. Now, I was thinking two hundred pounds a week, but I can be flexible.”

Esca’s eyes bug out. That’s a lot of money. He does some quick calculations in his head, comparing that with the rent prices he’s researched on Liathan’s laptop—

“Oh, and that includes room and board.”

Esca fumbles his mobile.

“…understand that you’ll have to think about it—“

“I’ll do it,” Esca interrupts.

The line goes quiet. It stretches long enough, Esca wonders if the call dropped.

“Hello?” he says. “Did you hear me? I said I’d do it.”

Finally, Aquila’s voice returns. “Marvellous,” he says jovially. “I’ll have my lawyer draft something up. When can you start?”

Esca’s halfway to saying _tonight_ , cos Jeannine’s sure to come ‘round again, maybe with Robert or the police this time, but he reins himself in. It wouldn’t do to come off sounding desperate. Never mind that he sort of is.

“Tomorrow,” Esca allows. “I can start tomorrow morning.”

“Perfect,” Aquila says. “Eight o’clock?”

Esca grins. A right real one, something he hasn’t done in ages.

“I’ll be there.”

When Davina comes out of the store a few minutes later, Esca kisses her exuberantly, right on the mouth.

“What was that for?” she laughs, wiping it off with the back of her hand.

“For being gorgeous,” Esca says, taking her bag for her. Then, more seriously, “Thanks, Davina.”

“Oh, never mind that. It’s just to get you out of our hair, innit?”

Esca thwacks her with the shopping bag.

\-----

Esca’s alarm goes off at 7AM.

In the dark, Esca hears Liathan throw a pillow at him, only to have it bounce off a wall and onto the floor.

“Jesus bloody Christ,” Liathan croaks. “Turn that off.”

“All right, all right,” Esca says, messing with his mobile until it’s gone silent. It done the trick though, he’s awake, and he’s got a job to go to.

A bloody _job_.

He kicks his blanket off.

“That’s it, then,” Esca says. “It’s been lovely doing your homework and feeding your gecko those disgusting crickets. But I’m off.”

“Watch your arse,” Liathan grunts, voice faint like he’s got his head under a pillow. “You know how much old perverts love a ripe scullery maid.”

Esca rolls his eyes. He’d say something insulting, but a) it’s too bloody early to be thinking up jibes and b) Liathan’s started snoring again.

With a mental shrug, Esca extricates himself from his blanket. Nothing to bring with him but the plastic bag he’d stuck his dirty laundry in, so with that in hand, he gets off the couch and gropes his way in the dark towards the staircase.

\-----

“Why don’t we let you get dressed first?” Aquila says evenly before closing the door to Marcus’ room, Esca backing out behind him with wide eyes. The last sight he sees before the door swings shut is Marcus in his little striped boxers— _just_ his little striped boxers—stretched out on top of his covers with a look of horror on his face.

“Well,” Aquila says, sounding amused. “I suppose that’ll get him out of bed, at least.”

Esca doesn’t respond, too busy wishing he could bleach his eyes. He won’t be able to close them for hours without seeing Marcus’ prominent morning wood behind them.

An unsettling thought occurs to him. “Am I meant to wake him up each day?” Esca asks. _And does he ever wear clothes to bed?_ he refrains from adding.

“Only if he isn’t up by seven,” Aquila replies. “I hope you aren’t suddenly concerned about the hours, Esca. Stephanos will insist on having you in the kitchen to help prepare breakfast each morning at six.”

“No, s’not that,” Esca mutters, when another thought hits. “Erm, sir. Does Marcus know why I’m here?” He certainly didn’t look like he’d been expecting him. Not if Marcus’ dropped jaw was anything to go by.

“He knows I’ve been looking for extra help, yes. But he didn’t know I hired you until—well, just now, I suppose.”

“All right.” Esca rubs the back of his neck. “Do you think it’ll be a problem?”

“I don’t see why,” Aquila says blithely. At Esca’s uncomfortable silence, however, he casts a sideways look. “Why, do you?”

“No, of course not,” Esca’s quick to respond. “I just…well, I haven’t really told him I was looking for work. Reckon he thinks I’ll be back in class tomorrow.”

Aquila turns around, giving Esca an appraising look. “Even knowing your situation?”

Bloody hell, Davina. How much did she tell the old codger? “I didn’t really tell him much,” Esca says helplessly. “Or anything, actually.”

“He’s going to ask, Esca.”

“I know, I just. Haven’t gotten around to it yet.” Esca shifts his weight, venturing a peek at Aquila’s face. His stern expression makes Esca feels about two inches tall. “You won’t tell him, will you?”

Aquila considers it for a moment, but Esca quickly amends, “I want to tell him myself. I’ll do it. I promise.” 

Finally, Aquila gives a solemn nod. A wave of relief washes over Esca, and he tilts his head in the direction of Marcus’ door, implicitly changing the subject.

Aquila obliges. “Are you decent yet?” he calls out.

“Yeah,” comes Marcus’ gruff reply. Aquila fixes one last, all-seeing look at Esca, then opens the door.

\-----

This time, Marcus is wearing clothes. Stupid clothes, yeah—a butter-yellow shirt tucked into plaid shorts, navy blue sweater draped ‘round his shoulders like he’s ready for a day of yachting with the Duke of Cambridge—but at least Esca can look him in the eye without choking on his tongue, yeah?

Marcus gazes back at him, asking Esca directly, “Why are you here?” His voice is still gruff from sleep and he’s rubbing his eyes, like he can rub away the image of Esca in his bedroom.

Aquila answers the question. “You know I’ve been looking for someone to help Stephanos around the house. After reviewing many others, I hired Esca.” He looks over his shoulder and beckons Esca to step forward.

He does so reluctantly, entering full into the room until the tepid light falling through the window washes over him. By the bed, Marcus sighs heavily, chest rising and falling. The sight of it makes Esca grow warm round his collar, so he lowers his eyes and puts his hands behind his back to keep himself from fidgeting.

“I should’ve been consulted,” Marcus says, but his resigned tone means he’s already accepted the fact of Esca’s employment.

Aquila gives a noncommittal shrug. “It was all so last-minute. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Marcus, I simply came to inform you of our new addition to the household. Esca still has yet to see the rest of the grounds, and Stephanos will be wanting him downstairs.” He turns to go. Esca follows suit—

“Wait,” Marcus says. Then, gentler. “Esca.”

With a questioning look, Esca meets Aquila’s gaze. The old man answers it with a little toss of his head that says _go on_ before leaving the room, shutting them inside together.

Esca turns around, but finds himself unable to come closer. He’s inexplicably rooted in place.

“Esca,” Marcus repeats, his voice sounding louder against the stillness of the room. But then he makes a small grimace and shuffles to the foot of his bed, lowering himself with difficulty until he’s properly seated. He looks up at Esca with supplicating eyes, injured leg rigid and unbending before him.

Like an untethered balloon, Esca drifts over.

“Still hurt?” he asks cautiously.

“Yeah,” Marcus murmurs, but he’s got something else on his mind. Green eyes search his out and when Esca finally lets himself look back, Marcus asks, “Are you going to tell me what’s going on, now?”

Damn it. He’s got to, hasn’t he? Even promised old man Aquila, just minutes prior. “Yes,” Esca replies, the short word dragged out of him on a bed of nails.

He doesn’t know where to begin—what to say to make any of it sound like no big deal. Whatever he tells Marcus, he doesn’t want to sound like a bloody victim, yeah? S’bad enough he’s working for him, like a servant boy from some BBC series; Esca doesn’t need Marcus’ pity to go along with it.

So does he start with Wednesday, after he’d left this very house and gone home to a belligerent Robert? Or does it go back further than that? Esca MacCunoval, ten years old: a house, two parents, middle of three sons. Esca MacCunoval, eleven years old: orphan, last of his family, lost in the system.

Maybe it starts with Lie-Lie, the first idiot Esca didn’t hate on sight at his new school. He was the first to call Esca a shrimp, the first to have his blood spilt by Esca’s clenched fist. And afterwards they laughed so hard they cried—well, Liathan would’ve, if his eyes weren’t so dried out from being high as a kite. Liathan had pissed himself (an occurrence he’d found shocking at the time) and that’d only made Esca laugh harder, salty tears streaming down his face.

No, none of it will do. None of it’s right for Marcus’ ears. Cos the thing is, Esca ent as pathetic as all that sounds. He ent someone to cry over! He doesn’t want no one’s bloody money, rattling about in a tin can—doesn’t need oversized denims for Christmas, doesn’t need a dollar a month like an African baby with a distended belly on a sodding postcard. He’s a fucking _MacCunoval,_ and he’d rather die than dishonour his family’s memory by groveling for sympathy like a worthless maggot.

Marcus’ hand touches his. Esca blinks, looking down.

“I won’t push you,” Marcus says quietly. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Esca doesn’t even realize his shoulders have risen up by his ears until Marcus wraps his hand around Esca’s wrist and trails up, leaving chills on his route past the bump of Esca’s elbow, the hill of Esca’s shoulder. A little pressure there makes Esca lower his hackles, and from there the fight leaves him like an exhalation.

“Okay,” Esca says dully, eyes fluttering shut from the feeling of Marcus’ palm on his shoulder, heavy and comforting. Marcus’ thumb traces circles into the side of Esca’s neck. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

Marcus lifts his hand, cool air displacing the weight. For a split second Esca thinks he feels the ghost of a touch across his lips, but when he’s opened his eyes Marcus has leaned back on his hands, which are hidden behind the unmade covers bunched up around Marcus’ ass.

“Well, go on. Get out of here. I want eggs, and since you’re the help now, you might as well know I like them sunny-side up.”

That surprises a chuckle out of Esca. “How do you know I won’t poison it?”

“Easy,” Marcus replies serenely. “I’ll make you taste them first.”

“God, you fucking toff,” Esca laughs, shaking off whatever mood had come over them. “I might be a servant, now, but you better watch it cos I could kill you in your sleep. I’m just next door, you know.”

“Lucky for me, I can use your knife to defend myself. Now go, ‘cause I want bacon, too. Three slices.”

“Fat arse,” Esca taunts before he hastens out of the room, using the door like a shield as Marcus throws his balled-up sweater at him.

Esca shoves his head back through the door. “Are you going to be this grumpy every morning?”

“God, shut up!” Marcus groans, covering his face dramatically.

“Yes, my lord,” Esca cheekily replies, moving away before Marcus can throw something else at him.

\-----

Fuck’s sake, Esca knew Marcus lived in a big house. He’d been there, hadn’t he? Never quite got past the first set of corridors though, and stupidly assumed that was all there was.

Well, he was wrong.

Marcus lives in a fucking _villa_. When you turn the corner of the main hallway, it branches off into two separate wings, both of which have at least ten rooms attached on either side. That’s not to mention the second floor—nor the third—nor the small country Aquila and Stephanos have dubbed the “backyard”, which is only reachable through the glass doors at the rear of the house.

It ent a backyard. There’s a manmade _lake_ attached to it, with a charming dock and wooden punt floating on the gently rippling surface. Beyond that, a vast, rolling lawn disappears behind a ring of trees—trees that stretch on for who-knows how far.

A “backyard” does not come with its own ecosystem, for the love of God.

“Come on, now. Waiting for a printed invitation? Get a move on,” Stephanos pokes Esca with the butt of a rake, making him remember he’s got one in his own hands.

Yeah, no one needs this much land. ‘Specially not when Esca’s got to scrape all the leaves off it, Jesus Christ.

“Coming,” he says, trotting after Stephanos so they can start clearing away the last hurrah of Autumn, which comes in heaps of crunchy, auburn waste littered across the grounds.

Golden leaves turn to dust inside the rubbish bags Esca and Stephanos reap everything into—foliage, twigs, and in one instance, a dirty sock with a hole in it that looks suspiciously the size of Marcus’ big toe. Above their heads, the oncoming season lurks in wait with its anaemic sunlight, filtered through naked, craggy branches. By the time Esca gets back inside the house, hours later, his nose is a jolly red and it won’t stop running.

“Quit sniffling. It’s uncouth,” Stephanos berates. Esca responds with a mighty one that fills his lungs with cold air, then hocks a mucus-y loogie into the nearest bag of leaves.

“Disgusting,” Stephanos mutters, but he doesn’t sound all that bothered. Esca shrugs and follows him.

After the long morning of yard work, Stephanos takes Esca downstairs. While they’d prepared breakfast by their lonesome, a couple fry-ups hardly requiring the services of a full staff, this time the kitchen’s already burbling with voices and smells and the general din of cooking.

Therein, he meets Sasstica, the cook, as well as her eight-year old son, Rowan, who immediately runs behind his mother and peers out at Esca with unblinking doe eyes.

“What’s wrong with him?” Esca asks, gesturing at the boy.

Sasstica raises one eyebrow, clapping the flour off her hands to set them onto her wide, aproned hips. She doesn’t spare Esca another glance though, just directs her eyes at Stephanos as she says, “A bit younger than I expected. Wot, did the master pluck ‘im out of juvie or summat?”

The familiar ebb and flow of her speech fills Esca with the oddest impulse to cross the low-ceilinged kitchen poke more words out of her. Hell, he hadn’t even realized how foreign the entire bloody household was ‘till now. Marcus is a Roman, lest he forget, and Uncle Aquila speaks with a distinctly American twang. Even Stephanos has the accented speech of a mixed upbringing—his English probably learned from an American, judging by his vowels. Still, he carries himself with all the regality and priggishness of an Oxbridge swot, never mind he’s just a housekeeper in the home of an eccentric nutter. 

“Now whas wrong with _you,_ eh?” Sasstica retorts, and Esca realizes he’s gone quiet, lost amongst his thoughts. All the same, he can barely restrain himself from leaping over the cutting block and giving her a squeeze ‘round her generous middle for being so damned _Northern_.

“Nuffink,” he says with a flash of a grin. “I could just do with some lunch, s’all.”

“Well then, stop standing there catching flies and come help me skin the potatoes. Yeh won’t eat till _after,_ you hear?”

\-----

Over the next couple weeks that follow, Esca effortlessly weaves himself into the household. 

Stephanos is taciturn and strict, but he ent all bad. He’s just comfortable with his life, with the cards it’s dealt him.

Sasstica also lives at the villa, though she normally doesn’t show face ‘till about eleven o’clock, just in time to prep lunch if Aquila is home. As for her son, Rowan’s cottoned on to Esca like a duckling to its imprinted mother. That first weekend, he can hardly go ten steps without tripping over the quiet, dark-haired boy. It’d be bloody irritating if it weren’t just as flattering. On Thursday, he lets Rowan do his homework in Esca’s room as Esca reclines on his twin-sized bed, listening to Ghost Mice at full blast on his earphones.

In between the small, daily staff, there are the folks who come and go—the chain-smoking gardener, Ian MacDougal with his pick-up truck full of shovels and loppers. The driver, a smartly-dressed man in a cap who Esca has yet to properly meet. Then there’s Katie Park, Marcus’ PT counsellor. She’s a friendly ginger who’s stops by once every two weeks.

All the while, Aquila spends his retirement shuffling about at home in his bunny slippers, reading the paper, or entertaining guests who are as mad as he. Esca swears, one time he smelled the the skunky scent of weed floating around the arboretum outside. Texted Liathan about it right after, earning a gleeful response telling Esca to filch the old man’s stockpile.

Sometimes he misses a normal life, yeah. The soothing drone of lessons, fistfights by the bike shed, lazy hours skiving off class with Liathan. Molly kicking the back of Esca’s chair in History; Davina driving them around after school.

Still, the days get on. With the more time that passes, the fear that Esca will be found and dragged back to Jeannine and Robert’s shithole council estate fades into the milky film of memory.

The hard work that transpires during the day—it’s more than he bargained for. Still, the dull ache of tired muscles is a pleasant one, and in the evenings, there is always Marcus.

\-----

“God, move your bony ass over. You’re hogging all the room for such a little person.”

“Fuck off, mate. I’m twice the size’a you where it counts,” Esca crows, pelting Marcus with a grape. He’ll have to pick it up later when he cleans out the games room, but it’s worth the look on Marcus’ face when the green fruit bounces off his forehead.

“You little…” Marcus trails off in mock disbelief. He makes a grab for Esca anyway, wrestling him against the cushions with all the finesse and skill of an elephant sitting on a mouse.

Esca squirms out from under Marcus’ bulk, breathless with laughter.

“I’m limiting you to one piece of bacon from now on, Aquila. You’re getting fat.”

“I am _not_ fat,” Marcus growls, leaping on Esca again and squashing him into the corner of the couch, Esca writhing futilely as all he manages to do is dislodge one of the cushions, which lands ignominiously onto the hardwood floor.

He’s starting to get sweaty from all the struggling, but then Marcus suddenly freezes on top of him.

“Oh, hey Rowan,” Marcus says, panting softly.

Esca throws him off and scrambles up, seeing Rowan standing by the door of the games room. “What are you doing up here?” he asks.

Rowan pulls the sleeves of his jumper over his hands and swings them back and forth a little. “Mum said you were watching a movie. I thought, since it’s Friday, I could watch with you? But if you’re…” His eyes dart to Marcus beside him, whose breath is still a bit laboured against Esca’s ear.

“Yeah,” Esca says, elbowing Marcus to the other side of the couch. “Yeah, ‘course you can. Come on, let’s get that cushion back here.”

Rowan toddles over and helps Esca fit the seat back into place. After a bit of finagling, the three of them are seated on the couch, snug as sardines.

Esca grabs the remote and flips to On Demand. He and Marcus were meant to watch _Bridesmaids_ , but Esca scrolls right on past.

“Hey, I thought we were—“

Esca shushes him, knocking his knee against Marcus’. “He’s bloody _eight_ ,” he hisses through the corner of his mouth.

“He’s trespassing,” Marcus whispers back.

“He _lives_ here—“

“He can hear,” Rowan’s voice comes through, quiet but sullen.

Esca shoots Marcus an accusatory glare. In response, Marcus grabs the bowl of grapes and stuffs a handful of them into his mouth.

They eventually land on _How to Train Your Dragon,_ a movie Marcus vehemently denies ever having watched despite Esca hearing it on Marcus’ laptop just a week and a half ago through the thin wall between ‘em. Still, Marcus relents when Rowan keeps asking to watch some samurai movie that looks too gory for a grown-ass adult, much less an impressionable eight-year-old.

So, dragons it is.

They hunker down, and soon Marcus is hiding embarrassing noises— _Allergies,_ he insists—at the scene where Toothless gets captured, and Rowan’s fast asleep on Esca’s shoulder, head lolling until it plumb drops into his lap.

“Bloody hell,” Esca mutters, not sure where to put his hands so he rests one between Rowan’s thin shoulder blades and the other goes into the boy’s hair, scratching absentmindedly.

Before they know it, the credits are rolling, room going dark with the black of the screen. Esca jiggles his legs, one of them dead asleep and prickling with pins and needles beneath Rowan’s drooling face, but Rowan stays determinedly unconscious.

Next to him, Marcus stretches his arms towards the ceiling and gives a great big yawn.

“Later than I thought,” he says, blinking himself awake.

Esca glances at the lit-up clock on the DVD player. It’s 12:36AM.

“You know what day it is?” he asks, a slow grin making its way onto his face.

“Sunday?”

“No,” Esca says. “I mean, well, yeah. It’s Sunday.”

“O…kay?”

“It’s also my birthday,” Esca says triumphantly.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Marcus asks, looking curious as he turns toward Esca, throwing his arm along the back of the couch behind him.

“I dunno. Never really care much about my birthday. But it’s special this year,” Esca says excitedly.

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“I’m sixteen.”

“What’s so special about sixteen?” he asks, fingers starting to play with the hair at Esca’s nape.

“I’m free,” Esca explains with a grin. “No Child Services to breath down my neck. I could get a small flat, all to myself. Could you imagine anything more brilliant?”

Marcus’ fingers pause. “What do you mean?”

At the sight of his expression, slightly stunned, Esca backtracks. “Oh, never mind what I mean. I’m just running me mouth off. I’m not moving out anytime soon. I’m just…well, I’m glad it’s my birthday. That’s all.”

A strange looks comes over Marcus’ face, switching between too many emotions for Esca to catch.

“What is it?” he eventually asks. “If you’re worried you didn’t get me nuffink, there’s always time to fix that. You’ve got twenty-four hours, nearly. I could use new trainers. Or an Xbox in my room.”

“Yeah, whatever you want,” Marcus says distractedly.

“I was taking the piss,” Esca says, growing worried now. “Whas wrong with you? You’re daft, but not this daft, usually.”

With a determined look in his eye, Marcus curls his arm around Esca, drawing him as close as Rowan’s tousled head in Esca’s lap will allow. Ever resourceful, Marcus uses his other hand to hold Esca’s chin in place. 

Marcus’ eyes sink to half-lids.

Esca wets his lips, breathes through his mouth, waiting for something, he doesn’t know what.

“You’re crushing my head,” Rowan suddenly complains, twisting around in Esca’s lap with grumpy, sleepy movements. The scuffle makes Marcus pull back. Esca sees him grip both knees with his hands, knuckles tense.

He tries to send Marcus an inquisitive look, but Marcus avoids the gaze and stands up. Grabs the remote to shut off the telly, then gathers the empty fruit bowl as he waits for Esca and Rowan to follow suit.

“Come on, downstairs,” Esca says, ushering Rowan in front of him. He hangs back, wanting to be with Marcus.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asks quietly.

“No, of course not.” Marcus pauses, looking down at the bowl in his hands. “Um…what are you doing tomorrow?”

Esca hemms. “I dunno. Stephanos said he had errands for me during the day. But afterward, nothing really.”

“Well, keep it clear. Okay?”

“Why?” Esca asks, nudging Marcus with his elbow. “You gonna take me out, Marky? On a proper date with flowers and chocolate and a serenade, yeah? You gonna find a long spaghetti noodle for us to nosh at the same time?”

Even in just the thin light of the hallway, Esca can see Marcus colour up.

“In your dreams,” Marcus says, shoving Esca. 

With a little laugh, Esca pushes back, but only manages bounce off Marcus distressingly. They make it to the foot of the stairs that way, jostling each other back and forth as Rowan leads the way like a zombie, too tired to be fussed with the overgrown children behind him.

When they’re back downstairs, paused in front of their bedrooms, Marcus sends a shy, sideways smile that makes Esca stare just a bit.

“Happy sixteenth. Good night.”

“Yeah,” Esca replies dumbly. “Erm, thanks. Good night.”

When he enters his room, he has to lean against the closed door to settle his racing heart. He puts a hand over it, trying to feel if it’s actually beating as fast as it feels.

Fuck, it’s going like a jackrabbit. Esca scrubs his face with both hands, then falls onto his bed with a small bounce. Proceeds to bury his head underneath his pillow, shutting out the dangerous thoughts that threaten to escape his brain.


	4. Oh Cottia, Bless

Esca’s in the front garden, nodding along to _Combat Rock_ as he drowns a flowerless shrub with the hose.

 _Go straight to hell, boys,_ Esca mouths, bopping his head. _Go straight to—_

Someone grabs his shoulder.

“Fucking hell!” Esca yelps, spinning around. Just barely keeps from spraying his attacker, which Esca soon realizes is actually a girl ‘bout his age, maybe a little younger, a purple rucksack strapped to her back.

Esca twists off the brass nozzle with little squeaks until there’s nothing but a drip coming out the end. “Scared the bloody shite outta me,” he says, ripping his earphones out and shoving them into the pocket of his leather jacket. “Warn a man next time, yeah?”

“That was a warning,” she says, smiling cheekily.

“Almost watered you along with the bushes.”

“No harm either way,” she says amiably. “Nothing wrong with getting a bit wet, aye? S’not like I’m dressed in a bloody ball gown at ten in the morning.”

“S’pose not,” Esca says, dropping the garden hose to the grass with a wet plop and rubbing his chilled palms together. “So, whatsit you want? You’re trespassing, you know?”

“Friendly bloke, I see,” she says without vitriol. “Well, anyway. I’m here to see Marcus. Is he in the house? I rang the doorbell, but no one answered. Which is strange, cos usually Uncle Aquila answers, but last week he wasn’t wearing any trousers, just a funny dressing gown, and I might’ve laughed a bit at his chicken legs y’see, so I don’t wonder if I’ve upset him…”

Esca takes a step back, taking a proper look at the girl as she natters on in her high, bell-like voice. She’s awfully pretty—blonde hair, sunny as straw and down to her waist. Fine skin like a china doll, her face sweet and round like one too. And she doesn’t seem like one’a them girls who _know_ how fit they are, cos she’s wearing a ratty sweatshirt with holes in the wrists that she’s pushed her thumbs through, on top of oversized jeans with hems that drag in the mud.

“…and I told him, it’s perfectly all right for Italians not to wear trousers. It’s bloody traditional, innit? Like togas, yeah? Well anyway, I might’ve just been encouraging Marcus not to wear trousers, cos he’s well fit, I’m sure you’ve seen. And anyway I think he’ll cotton on to the idea sooner or later, cos have you seen his shorts? It’s bloody well near the same—“

“Sorry,” Esca interrupts, feeling his blood rush to his cheeks the longer she chin-wags about Marcus and how he ought not to be wearing trousers. “You’re looking for him, right? He’s probably still asleep, the lazy bugger.”

The girl giggles behind a hand. “Should you be talking that way ‘bout him? Wouldn’t want you to get sacked or nothing.”

“Why, what d’you mean?” Esca looks down at himself. He’s just wearing jeans and a white tee, a leather jacket. Not exactly screaming _prole_ now, is he?

“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way,” the girl says. “Just that—you’re the gardener, yeah?” She points to the hose snaked over Esca’s left foot. “I just assumed, since you were watering the bushes. Unless, is this a past-time of yours? I go around scaring blokes for sport, you go around watering their lawns. What a pair we make!”

“I suppose,” Esca says uncomfortably. Bloody hell, the girl is strange. “Anyway, I can grab Marcus, if you like. But, erm. Who exactly are you?”

“Oh, sorry. S’too early on a weekend for me to be remembering me manners.” She sticks a hand out. “Cottia. I’m just two doors down,” she says, gesturing along the wide, curving street.

“And what d’you need Marcus for? So I knows what to say to him.”

“He’ll know me,” she says easily. “We got to the same school. He’s been tutoring me the last few weeks.”

Esca tries not to let the surprise show on his face. It’s not like he thinks Marcus is a complete idiot or nothing. Just that Marcus ent exactly Mensa material, neither. He settles for repeating, doubtfully, “Tutoring?”

“He’s teaching me Italian.”

“Ah,” Esca nods. Cottia makes a face.

“I bloody well hate it, but my parents, you see. Completely obsessed with Italy. They met in Napoli, so everything’s Italy-this, Italy-that. Though I suppose, that’ll work in my favour when I introduce them to Marcus—“

“What d’you mean?”

“Well, there’s a school disco in a couple weeks. Marcus is going to be my date,” she says, beaming.

“Oh.” Esca blinks. “Erm, I’ll…go wake him for you, yeah?”

“Oh, you’re lovely,” she says. “What’s your name?”

“Esca.”

“Esca…” she says, turning thoughtful. “Esca…the name sounds so familiar.”

“Well, I used to attend Cottingswood,” he replies. They’re entering dangerous territory though, so he sets off for the front entrance, taking it for granted that she’ll follow him, which she does, fluttering behind like a drunken butterfly. 

“Oh, I know! Esca MacCunoval. You’re Liathan’s friend, aren’t you? His sister Aileen’s in my maths class, we get along rather well. I’ve been over at the Rhona’s a couple times. Liathan’s mentioned you before.”

Esca snorts, unlocking the front door. “I’m sure he has.”

Once inside, he tunes Cottia out. The elder Aquila is nowhere to be seen, but unless Marcus has completely changed his habits and decided to venture out before ten AM on a weekend, Esca reckons he’s still in bed. Stops in front of his bedroom door and knocks sharply on the wooden surface.

He hears a grumpy noise inside. Yep, definitely Marcus.

“I’m comin’ in,” Esca says, hand on the doorknob.

Before he gets it all the way open, however, Cottia dumps her rucksack on the floor and flies past him in a blur of gold.

“Marcus!” she calls, bounding into his room and jumping onto the lump beneath the covers.

Marcus grunts, rolling onto his back. “What the hell?” he rasps.

As soon as his face is revealed, one cheek covered in pillow creases, Cottia ducks her head down and plants a long, lingering kiss onto Marcus’ lips. Her hair slips from behind her ear, falling in a thick curtain that obscures them from view. Esca can hear them though; Marcus gurgles a little, then pushes Cottia off.

“Jesus, Cottia,” he says, sounding panicked.

“Don’t be shy now,” she says happily. “You agreed to be my date to the Snow Ball. I’m just practising.”

“It’s a dance, not our wedding,” Marcus complains, sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes. “And anyway, what are you doing here? I thought we weren’t meeting until tomorrow.”

As Cottia responds, apologising for mixing up the dates but not sounding the slightest bit sorry, Esca quietly lets himself out of the room. The two of them seem plenty preoccupied, and they don’t need the naffing _gardener_ standing about like a right creep, watching them snog.

He trudges back to the front garden. Ignores the pain in his chest, a hard throb like the one time he got stomped by Ronald with his cleats. Almost wishes it were so simple cos in a fight Esca could just punch back. For now though, all he can do is make a fist against his mouth and frown into it.

Fuck’s sake. Doesn’t know why he’s gone all upset, anyway. Just knows that—for all of his daft naiveté—Marcus doesn’t let down his guard easily. He might tolerate Kirby and the other footballers, and he might be fond of his uncle, but Esca could swear he only let himself look so rumpled and grouchy around one person: him.

Well, and Cottia makes two.

\-----

Esca doesn’t dwell on the morning’s events, though. He’s too busy, and besides, what’s the big deal if Marcus has friends other than Esca? It’s a good thing, innit? Healthy, like.

So Esca throws himself into the day’s jobs: laundry, carpet-beating, a quick lunch in the kitchens with Sasstica putting him to work, Esca’s grilled cheese clamped between his teeth as he peels carrots.

He wants to get everything done before it’s too long in the day. Doesn’t know what Marcus has planned, doesn’t know when he’ll need Esca to be free. So Esca makes sure he’ll be free.

“Oi, Esca!”

Esca quirks a look over his shoulder, arms laden with groceries as a high-pitched buzz approaches, growing louder.

Oh, Jesus. It’s Liathan, riding up on his naff mini-moto.

“Fuck’s sake, Liathan!” Esca calls, turning ‘round to face him, walking backwards. “I thought the plod nicked that stupid thing!”

“Well, I bought ‘nother one, didn’t I?” Liathan slows down, pulling up to the kerb.

“Waste’a your money.”

Beside him, Arnold—the driver—nudges Esca in the shoulder. “Shall I?” he asks, beckoning for the groceries with white-gloved hands.

Esca hands them over with a polite _thanks, mate_. In the street, Liathan clambers off his toy bike, then drops it onto the Aquila lawn. Claps his hands against his thighs, like he’s wiping off dirt.

“ _You’re_ a waste of my money,” Liathan says, coming over to shove the side of Esca’s face.

Esca bats him off. “The fuck? I don’t use none’a your dosh.”

“You are tonight. It’s your birthday, innit? Since I’m the number one most amazing, wonder-filly mate in the entire bloody world, I came to give you your present.”

Esca snorts, looking Liathan up and down. He’s wearing his Louis Vuitton trainers, navy tracksuit, and a white vest full of holes; no bloody present in sight.

“I don’t see nuffink. You come all this way just to bother me at work? I’m busy,” Esca says, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, yeah. Busy being the dago’s little bitch,” Liathan says, swinging an arm around Esca’s shoulders. “I remember. But come on, now. It’s your fucking sixteenth. Let me surprise you. Won’t take but an hour or two, maybe.”

“I dunno,” Esca says. “Depends wot it is. If you’re buying me another lapdance like last year, you can ride your little buzz-mobile right on home, cos that was a shite idea.” He shudders, remembering the dancer’s fake tits bouncing against his chest. She kept trying to make Esca touch them; horrified, he had to claim poison ivy to keep his hands safe. “‘Sides, I’m supposed to do something with Marcus tonight,” he adds casually.

“Oooh,” Liathan says, waggling his fingers in Esca’s face. “I see how it is. You’re getting your willy rubbed anyway, don’t need nobody to pays for it. And with the master’s son, even. Well done, mate.”

“Fuck off,” Esca mutters, though he doesn’t protest when Liathan steers them towards the front door. Esca’s about done for the day, anyway—just needed to put the groceries away, but Arnold’s done it for him.

“So what d’you say?”

“Fine,” Esca capitulates, ignoring Liathan’s crow _right in his ear_. “But only if it’s for a couple hours. Marcus was waiting for me to finish work, so let me give him the heads up.”

They enter the house, Esca tossing furtive, guilty looks around like he’s smuggling in a girl or summat. At least Liathan ent being a loudmouth no more; he just follows behind, eyes taking in the Mediterranean-influenced home—its wide, open corridors, the potted plants flanking the doors, the clay tile-work on the ground.

They reach Marcus’ room. Esca doesn’t mention his own’s right next door; he knows how much shit that would invite, and he’d rather avoid it all, thanks much.

Lifting his knuckles to knock, Esca suddenly notices something in the corner of his eye.

It’s a grape-coloured rucksack, lying on its side like a man keeled over. Exactly where Esca left it that morning, after Cottia had dropped it in favour of sprinting into Marcus’ bedroom and attacking his face with her lips.

It surprises him; Esca assumed she left. But come to think of it, he never actually saw Cottia go, or hell, even caught a glimpse of Marcus at any point during the day. They must’a just…stayed in. Gone on with what they were doing. For hours.

“Fuck’s wrong wit you?” Liathan’s voice next to Esca’s ear.

“Nuffink,” Esca says, lowering his hand. “S’just, I don’t need permission to go out on my own fucking birthday, yeah? Come on.” Esca pivots around. “Let’s get outta here.”

Liathan silently pumps his fist in the air, scrunching up his face like he’s tossing one off. “That’s it, brah. Stick it to the man.”

Esca rolls his eyes, but he lets himself be pulled away and back outside.

“Where we going, anyway?” Esca eventually asks, once they’ve reached the bus stop and have fuck all to do but wait around.

Liathan grants him a large, carnivorous grin. 

“We’re getting tattoos, mate.”

\-----

It doesn’t hurt. Just burns, sort of, like he’s been scrubbing his arm with steel wool—

“Bugger shite, woman, wotch where you point that thing!”

Esca looks up as Liathan ducks away from his tattooist and glares at her.

“I’m only pointing it where you asked, love,” she says mildly. “I warned you, back of the neck would hurt.”

Liathan mumbles something rude, but obediently turns around and lets her get on with it. He catches Esca’s amused expression.

“S’not funny, bitch boy,” Liathan grumps.

“Who says I’m laughing?” Esca replies, laughing.

In the end it actually does bloody hurt, but only cos his tattoo took three times longer than Lie-Lie’s lame-arse Celtic knot. Esca’s ink snakes ‘round his right arm, triple-tiered and coloured in blue. It’s bloody wicked. In for a penny, yeah? 

By the time they’ve finished, it’s dark out. Heavy moon overhead, the temperature’s plummeted from a nip in the air to a bone-deep chill.

Next to Esca, Liathan shivers like a puppy shaking off water. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get food. I’m fecking hungry after waiting for you for three sodding hours.”

Esca checks the time on his mobile; it’s nearing nine o’clock. Wonders if he should skip nosh despite his grumbling stomach. He hasn’t a clue what Marcus had planned for his birthday, but if he makes a pit-stop now he’s certain to miss it.

“I dunno, I should probably be getting home,” Esca says.

“To your boyfriend, you mean?” Liathan asks, damn him. “If he had plans or whatever, don’t you think he would’ve texted?”

Esca frowns, checking his mobile again. No messages, no missed calls.

“Maybe” he allows, shoving the device into his back pocket with a wince as his sore skin pulls at the movement. “Let’s get food, I’m hungry too.”

Cos Lie-Lie’s right. What’s the point in rushing home in the hopes that Marcus might toss him a bone? Who says Marcus even remembers the comment he made last night? They’d both been tired. Maybe Esca took it the wrong way, and here he is now, bloody well hoping for suffink that ent ever existed ‘cept for in his own head.

“Your shout, right?” Esca says, trundling after Liathan who’s already underneath the bus stop, bouncing on his toes.

“Yeah, yeah. Use me for my money.”

“Always,” Esca replies. He joins Liathan beneath the plastic awning where they wait to the sound of passing cars and each others cold, huffed-out breaths.

\-----

It’s almost midnight.

With a full belly and fingers that smell like pizza cheese, Esca slips back into the house. The corridors are empty, but he toes off his Chucks anyway to stay quiet, padding towards his room on socked feet.

When he gets to his door, he pauses.

Maybe he should check in with Marcus. Knock first, see if he’s asleep yet. He wouldn’t have to bring up any of the things bouncing ‘round his head— _I thought we were hanging out tonight,_ or, _What did you do with Cottia all day-long, cooped up in your room together?_

Well, that one’s bloody obvious. What does any bloke do in a bedroom with a pretty girl?

Frowning, Esca pushes into his own room and drops the small, plastic bag of tattoo aftercare onto the dresser table. Leans on the edge with two hands, peers up at himself in the vanity mirror.

Bloody hell, he looks rough. Esca runs a hand through his hair, lifting it up, wild and messy, then turns around to shrug off his jacket. He’s careful of the bandage covering his new tattoo as he tugs his sleeve away, gingerly, with two fingers.

Undresses all the way down to his black skivvies. Usually sleeps starkers, but it’s bloody cold so Esca rifles through his drawers and pulls out a pair of pyjama pants, yanks them on.

All right then.

He should go to bed, he thinks, staring at the mattress.

But he doesn’t feel like sleeping yet.

“Damn it,” Esca mutters, turning on his heel and taking the few steps necessary to arrive at Marcus’ door.

He knocks.

There’s no reply, so Esca tries again, this time asking, quietly, “Marcus?”

When there’s no response, Esca cautiously turns the doorknob, pushing it open and poking his head through.

With the blinds half-drawn, the window lets in just enough slatted light to see that Marcus’ bed is empty.

Closing the door gently behind him, Esca sets off down the corridor.

He doesn’t find Marcus in the study. Doesn’t find him in the games room or guest bedrooms upstairs, or any of the bathrooms. Downstairs, Esca wishes he’d kept his t-shirt on a bit longer, huddling his arms ‘round his naked torso as he searches the unheated kitchens and laundry room.

“Fuck’s sake, where are you?” Esca says under his breath, feeling the smallest kernel of worry plant itself into his chest. Back on the first floor, he’s about to head into his room to try ringing Marcus, when something gives him pause.

He turns around, slowly.

At the back of the house, the double glass doors hold reign, moonlight puddling into the darkened room at its feet. A gut feeling pushes Esca towards it with cloying, invisible fingers.

\-----

Marcus is in the punt.

He looks dead in there, lying like a mummy under a blanket, his face pale and drawn.

With an urgency that Esca will vehemently deny if anyone ever asks, he rushes down the gravel path and onto dock that juts into the small lake. Leans over, knuckles white around the bobbing wooden edge. 

From this close, he can see Marcus’ wide chest rise up and down in smooth, even bellows. Thank fuck; he’s just asleep.

Feeling all a bit silly now, Esca shakes his head at himself and pulls back, vigorously rubbing his sides as a cold breeze gusts across his bare skin and makes his teeth chatter. It’s November now, and rightly feels it—spurs Esca to plant both hands on the dock and stick a leg out towards the boat, where he gropes for a foothold with socked toes.

Esca unsteadily shifts himself onto the punt, arms stretched wide for balance, and leaves the dock rocking behind him. Inside the punt, water slaps against the sides of the hull, but Marcus doesn’t so much as twitch. Bloody idiot could sleep through the end of the world.

Esca quickly crouches and steals the blanket, hauling it up to his chin until he realizes Marcus is only wearing a thin pullover, without even one of his toff polo shirts underneath. His neck looks weirdly lonely without a collar around it. So Esca lowers himself down to the swaying bottom of the boat, pushes aside a picnic basket—spares a guilty thought that it might’ve been for him—then worms a space next to Marcus. Once in place, Esca primly puts the blanket back over the both of them.

Overhead, the stars are out. In Esca’s old neighborhood he could never get a good view, not with all the electric lights everywhere. But here, he might as well be camping. A frog croaks somewhere far-off, its plaintive cry echoing across the lake.

Next to him, Marcus makes a little sigh. He’s probably about to start snoring.

Esca props himself up to his elbows and looks over, where Marcus’ head has tilted towards him, his expression serene. In this blue-ish lighting, he looks like a Greek statue or summat— _Roman_ statue, Esca wryly corrects himself—all manly and straight-nosed, square-jawed. Everything Esca never was. At least he hasn’t got those girly lips, full and plump like Marcus is constantly snogging someone or sucking dick.

A blush warms Esca’s cheeks the instant he thinks it. S’true, though; if Esca had a mouth like Marcus, he wouldn’t have lasted ten days without getting the tar kicked out of him at school, or by Robert. On Marcus though, they soften his face, rounding out otherwise stern features.

He suddenly thinks of Cottia, who’d tasted them earlier today. Wonders what it was like. He’s never done it before, kissed someone. Not properly, at least.

Were Marcus’ lips as soft as they look? Did Marcus have foul breath in the morning? Well, that one Esca already knows; he’s the one who has to wake up the lazy sod. (Definitely foul.)

Still, Esca wonders. He leans in, studying Marcus’ face. His lashes are dark smudges in the night, fanned over high cheeks. Even in sleep, Marcus looks like he’s smiling a little; the natural way his mouth turns.

Esca feels his own go dry. Licks his lips, but the cold air just makes them dryer. And colder. Esca ducks his head down and kisses Marcus.

Mm, warmer now.

Eyelids firmly shut, Esca sighs out through his nose. Marcus doesn’t taste much like anything, just comforting and soft. Softer than he imagined. Esca puts a hand on Marcus’ chest to steady himself, lingering just a while longer before he pulling back. Their mouths make a slick noise as they part, like in the movies.

Feeling rather daft all of a sudden, Esca tries to draw away. But Marcus chooses that moment to wake, catching the hand on his chest and sitting up.

Eyes widening, Esca falls back on his other elbow and finds himself locked in a staring contest with Marcus, who looks rumpled and wild-eyed in his rousing.

“Esca?” he asks, sounding confused.

Esca’s stomach drops. Shit. Was Marcus awake this whole time? What the bloody hell what was Esca _thinking?_

“Erm,” he manages, trying to reclaim his hand. It’s like Marcus only now notices it, eyes falling to where he’s holding it tight.

“Fuck, sorry,” Marcus says, dropping Esca’s hand like it has a venereal disease. “I didn’t mean to—was I trying to—?” His eyes slip down, away from Esca’s face to hover somewhere around his chest. “Why aren’t you’re wearing any clothes?” he finally asks, sounding bewildered.

“Wot?” Esca looks down. Oh. “I _am,_ you pillock,” he says, scooting up in his seat and yanking the blanket off so Marcus can see his trousers. Long and warm and _decent_ trousers. Bloody fuck though, the air’s trying to freeze his nipples off. Esca yanks the blanket back up to his chin.

“Fuck’s sake, didn’t you bring any more blankets?”

Marcus draws his knees up under his arms as he sends Esca a truly heroic eye-roll. “I wasn’t expecting to do this at midnight, asshole. Where were you?”

“I was…” Esca wets his lips. “I went out with Liathan.” Feeling guilty, Esca adds, “I was gonna tell you. But you, erm. Seemed busy. So we left. We got tattoos.”

“Tattoos?” Marcus’ forehead wrinkles, eyes roving across Esca’s body, but he’s covered in blanket. So he sits up proper, ignoring the sting of winter against his exposed skin as Esca lets the sheet drop to his lap.

“Yeah,” he says, straightening his arm out to show Marcus the bandage. “You wanna see?”

Marcus nods. Crowds in as Esca scratches up a corner of the sticky bandage and carefully peels it back.

Marcus goes strangely quiet as Esca reveals the tattoo. He keeps an eye on Marcus’ face, but he can’t read the expression he finds there—blank, like Marcus is trying to hide what he really thinks.

Bugger. He must hate it.

“Never mind,” Esca says, feeling stupid, and a little defensive, as he rolls the bandage back in place. But Marcus stops him with a hand on his wrist.

“No, wait. I want to see it.”

Their eyes meet. Marcus looks earnest enough, so Esca obliges, pulling off the entire bandage and tossing it towards their feet.

The tattoo is still greasy with ointment, highlighting the angry, raised ink. It’s all there, though; three blue coils, made up of geometric links, the middle one coloured in.

Marcus rests his chin on his crossed arms and looks at it from there, green eyes travelling up Esca’s bicep like a touch before colliding with Esca’s gaze.

“What’s it mean?” Marcus asks curiously.

“What, I can’t get a tattoo for the sake of being it being awesome?”

“No,” Marcus replies with a small, crooked grin. “You wouldn’t do that. It would have to mean something.” He doesn’t say it derisively, more like he’s stating a fact. Esca supposes it’s true.

“This one here,” he says, pointing to the middle band. “Thas me.” Points to the top band. “Those are my parents.” The bottom. “My brothers.”

Marcus bites his lower lip, chewing on it thoughtfully before he asks, “Where are they now?”

Esca expects the question. He used to get it all the time, before learning to avoid it at all costs.

_What are you doing for Christmas, Esca?_

_Oh, but where’s your family?_

_Haven’t you got a family?_

He also expects the question to hurt, but it doesn’t, not from Marcus. There’s no pity in his voice. Esca’s relieved.

“They’re dead. There was…an accident, when I was ten. House burned down. I wasn’t home. I don’t even remember where I was. But it wasn’t home. Mum and Da, Ken and Mack, though; they were there.” Esca waits for the usual feelings to rush in—for his throat to close up and the anger to ignite—but it’s strange; nothing happens. He just feels cold inside, a little empty.

“I don’t even remember what I was doing at the time,” Esca adds thoughtfully. He looks up at Marcus, searching his face for disappointment or disgust. “Is that horrible? That I, alone, was spared, but I can’t even remember what saved me?”

“No,” Marcus says simply, his green eyes gone fierce and protective. What, of Esca? He’s got it all wrong; Esca ent the one who needs protecting. He ent the one who died that day. No, that would be everyone else, yeah?

“Mack was eight, and Ken, fourteen,” Esca says. God, he hasn’t said their names aloud in years. And now it’s like he can’t stop. “They said Mack tried to hide under the bed, which makes sense cos he used to get so scared of the closet in our room. Probably cos I used to duck inside there and bang on it, pretending to be a monster or summat.

“And Ken, he jumped out the third-story window. Landed on his neck, the fucking idiot. We had a fucking tree right outside the bedroom, he could’a just jumped onto it. Never had any common sense, nevermind how bloody smart he was.”

Esca looks up now, wishing Marcus could remember them too. He’s tired of being the only one who does.

“Da tried to save Mum, I think, but they were trapped in the living room cos the ceiling caved in, right in front of the doorway. They said his body was on top of hers. Typical; she could take care’a herself, but Da always used to be so fecking obnoxious about making sure we was all right.”

Esca swallows, trying to stop the deluge of words spilling out of him. He lets his eyes drift back down to his lap and says, half to himself. “I can barely remember how they look. This was before facebook and the internet, y’know, so all the pictures. They went with the house. And if I can’t even be trusted to remember them—me, the only one left—how can I expect anyone else to?”

Next to him, Marcus shifts in his seat, making the boat sway anew. The water laps at their sides, lazily. “Well,” Marcus says. “They’re carved into your arm now, so there’s always that.”

The response surprises laugh out of Esca. He slants a look at Marcus with crinkled eyes. “Aye, I s’pose there’s always that.”

Marcus nods down at the tattoo. “Does it still hurt?”

Esca glances down at it. “Not a lot. Just sore, mostly. Sore and hot.”

With his chin still on his arms, Marcus tips over and blows a cool stream of air over Esca’s tattoo. It’s chilly, ‘specially with the ointment on it. It makes Esca’s spine tingle from base to nape, all the hair on his arms raising up. 

His cock twitches, suddenly interested.

“Stop,” he says roughly, shoving Marcus back to his side of the boat with his knee. “I’m cold enough as is.”

“That’ll teach you to walk around naked,” Marcus grins. “Slapper.”

“What?” Esca squawks. “Where did you even learn that word? And never say it again, it sounds bloody wrong with a Yank accent. _Slapperrr,_ ” he affects. “Bloody daft.”

Marcus throws his head back, laughing at the sky. “Oh God, Esca. Please—don’t ever do that again. You sound—you sound—“

Fuck’s sake, can’t even finish his bloody sentence, he’s laughing so hard. Esca snatches the blanket off’a them and swings it around his shoulders, huddling underneath. Marcus doesn’t even notice, he’s still chortling like a right arsehole.

“Fuck off, dickhead. And get me another blanket, it’s sodding cold, if you haven’t noticed.”

Marcus looks over then, his laughter tapering off. Something mischievous enters his eyes.

“I can warm you up without one,” he teases. 

Esca’s ready retort dies in his throat. He coughs into his blanket instead. “Wot?” he asks, eyes wide. Cos Marcus couldn’t mean—he doesn’t even. Right?

With small a shake of his head, Marcus lets his mirth run its course until all that’s left is an embarrassed, but fond smile on his lips, and the way he looks at Esca like he’s something new.

“It’s called central heating,” Marcus finally says, leaning over his knees to stand up, wobbly in the unruly boat. “Let’s go inside.” He hops onto the dock, catching himself. Turns around with a proffered hand, which Esca ignores for a bit as he collects the picnic basket and the bandage he’d tossed aside, earlier.

Marcus is still there when he’s ready though, so Esca takes it and lets Marcus haul him out of the punt.

He lands too close, their toes overlapping, knees bumping. Flustered, Esca backs up and looks up at Marcus, who he always manages to forget is so bloody _tall_. The moon makes a halo out of his messy hair.

“Come on,” Marcus says happily, jerking his head towards the house. He hasn’t let go of Esca’s hand.

It’s scary to realize, but Esca doesn’t _want_ him to let go. Jesus Christ—he yanks his hand back and hides it back under the blanket, using both sets of fingers to clutch the sheet ‘round his neck, like a protective cape.

Marcus doesn’t take affront to it, though. Just sets the course, crunching up the gravel walkway towards the house.

Esca follows behind, heart palpitating—follows him back inside.

He _wants_ to follow Marcus into his bedroom.

Holy shit. Everyone was right. 

Esca’s a bloody poofter.

 _Oh God,_ Esca mentally groans. Liathan is gonna have a fucking _field day_ with this.

\-----

“So I says to him, ‘Why don’t you bloody well come, then?’ and Marcus, he says back—oh, he’s lovely, isn’t he Esca?—he says back, ‘Sure. I guess.’”

Cottia clasps her hands together and sighs dreamily. “ _Sure. I guess._ Have you ever heard anything so lovely in your entire life?”

Esca scratches his ear. “Erm, no?” Cos it ent ‘lovely’, it’s daft. “Your serve,” Esca adds helpfully.

Cottia drops the tennis table ball and swings—and misses.

“So anyway,” she goes on blithely, as Esca chases the plastic ball under the table. “That’s how he asked me out. Why did you want to know? D’you want to come as well? Cos I think we could work something out. Maybe you can come as Aileen’s date. But then, who would Liathan go with?”

Esca nearly bangs his head on the underside of the table, cos holy shit, Liathan’s going to the bloody Snow Ball with his _younger sister?_ Oh, that’s grand. That’s golden.

He locates the ball and crawls out, saying, “I’ll go with Aileen, put the poor girl out of her misery, and as for Liathan he can suck my dick six ways to—“ Esca falls a step back, cos Marcus is standing right there. “—oh, hi Marcus.”

Marcus clears his throat. “I don’t think he should do that."

“Why? D’you want the honours?” Fuck’s sake, WHY did he just say that? He turns to Cottia, praying she’ll start one of her verbal haemorrhages—

“Oh dear, it’s one-thirty. _Fawlty Towers_ is on! I’ll be in the telly room,” she says, pointing up the stairs. 

Damn it, woman. “Are you taking the piss? They’re all re-runs,” he says incredulously. When it’s clear she’s actually leaving: “And I won that round!”

“I wasn’t even _trying,_ ” she replies, turning around to stick her tongue out, mature like. When she passes Marcus, she sends a cheeky grin and a slap on the arse.

“Jesus—“ Marcus starts, but Cottia’s already vaulted up the stairs. Esca isn’t sure if he’s horrified or amused, so he settles for somewhere in between.

When Marcus turns back around, Esca holds up the table tennis ball. “Fancy a game?”

“Oh, um. Maybe later. I came down to ask if you were busy.”

“Not anymore, I’m not,” Esca says, setting the ball onto the table and laying his bat on top of it. Sticks his hands in his pockets. “Why, what’s going on?”

“Well, I have to buy a suit this weekend. Mind helping me look?”

Esca wets his lips, taking in Marcus’ chunky knit pullover, the pink collar crumpled around his neck, his ill-fitting trousers. There are little whales on Marcus’ navy socks, which he wears with ugly brown moccasins. “I reckon you’ll need the help,” Esca says, lifting an eyebrow.

“Oh, shut up,” Marcus replies, but he’s laughing. “Let me grab my keys; I'll meet you in the driveway.”

\-----

“Stop fidgeting.”

“I’m not fidgeting. You’re just being handsy,” Marcus grouses, craning away from where Esca would be adjusting the back buckle of his waistcoat, except that Marcus keeps bloody well _fidgeting_.

“Aye, I’ll show you handsy,” Esca says, shoving down the back of Marcus’ head, making him kowtow. “Handsy enough for you?”

“Argh,” Marcus says intelligently. He’s saved from further abuse, though, when the saleslady enters the fitting area, a hanger in each hand. Esca steps back to receive her.

“Here’s the single-button jacket that goes with the waistcoat,” she says, handing it over. “I also brought in the two-button Camden fit that might look nice on his frame.”

“You mean, cos he’s fat,” Esca says, hanging up the jackets so he can slide the first one off its hanger. “It’s all right, you can say it. He’s put on a few pounds since the weather turned cold, aye. It’d be dishonest to pretend we weren’t all thinking it.”

“ _Esca,_ ” Marcus says in a strangled voice. Esca wonders if he’d knotted his tie too tightly earlier. As for the saleslady, she seems to be stifling a laugh.

“I’ll give the two of you a moment to see which suit you prefer. If you need any help, I’ll be right in the shop,” she says, before ducking back out of the fitting area.

“I hate you,” Marcus grumps.

“You couldn’t live without me,” Esca says, trying to keep his voice arrogant, and not at all hopeful. “Come now,” he prods, holding the jacket at hip-level behind Marcus and making it dance.

Marcus obediently sticks his hands into the armholes so Esca can slide it up to his shoulders. Dusts him off, then comes ‘round to the front.

 _Bloody hell,_ Esca thinks, leaning back with a finger on his chin.

Marcus is shaking out the sleeves, trying to make them sit right. Hardly any need, though; they already fit him like a glove.

Marcus looks _fit._

“What do you think?” Marcus asks worriedly, buttoning the front. “You’re making a face like Kirby’s kicking the shit out of you.”

“Ey, fuck you, mate,” Esca says, snapping out of it. “The suit looks fine, all right? You look—better than usual. I guess that’s what happens when you ent dressed like a senile old codger, yeah?”

Marcus doesn’t rise to the bait, just turns around and scrutinises himself in the full-length mirror. Turns to one side, then the other, then finally slides his hands into his trouser pockets which makes the fabric pull up in the back, revealing Marcus’ arse. An arse that doesn’t have any business looking so good considering how much Marcus sits on it, doing naff all but watching footie.

Ugh, bloody hell. “Done with the fashion show?” Esca gripes, storming over to the other hanger and pulling off the trousers and waistcoat.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” Marcus says, still facing the mirror. “It’s nice and all, but…it looks like I’m trying too hard.”

Esca comes up behind him, looking in the mirror to see what Marcus sees. S’true enough, he supposes; Marcus looks like someone else entirely, like a right bloody model with the black, tailored jacket hugging all his muscles and dipping low enough to show a good portion of the pinstriped waistcoat, the trousers seamlessly tapering off just high enough to reveal his whale socks which, in this ensemble, suddenly seem quirky instead of plain bloody daft.

“You do look a bit of a prat,” Esca agrees, leaving out the part where he looks like a _well fit_ prat. “Here, try these on.”

Marcus takes the waistcoat and trousers and lets Esca push him towards a fitting room. Once the door is firmly shut, Esca lets out a sigh of relief, then busies himself by rifling through a nearby rack.

He can hear Marcus rustling behind him, probably taking his jacket off, and the relative quiet thereafter must be him undoing the multiple waistcoat buttons.

“So, what’s all the fuss for, anyway?” Esca asks casually, breaking the silence. “I know you’ve got a suit already; I had to take it to dry cleaning once. Why do you need something new?”

“You’re the one who’s always making fun of the way I dress,” Marcus says through the door, followed by the sound of a belt buckle jangling. Esca feels his palms start sweat. He probably shouldn’t be touching all these expensive suits like this; not with his damp, paupers’ hands, ney.

“So it’s for Cottia, then,” Esca says, cos he loves being a masochist like so. “She’ll think you’re fit either way. Trust me, I know. She can’t bloody well shut up about it.”

“Cottia thinks Alan Alda is hot,” Marcus says, and that flapping noise has got to be him kicking off his trousers. “I wouldn’t put too much stock in her taste level.”

Esca idly wonders what color skivvies he’s got on. Striped, like the first time he walked in on Marcus? Stretched out and bed-headed, Marcus had been so bloody gorgeous it makes Esca dig his nails into his palm at the memory to keep from—oh, for cryin’ out loud—

Esca shiftily looks about, making sure the fitting area’s empty before pressing the heel of his hand to his groin, willing his dick to stay down.

“Esca?” Marcus calls out.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he says, whipping around to face the wall in case Marcus comes out. Fortunately, Marcus takes bloody forever so by the time he hears the door reopen, Esca is back to nonchalantly feeling up discarded suits on the clothing rack.

Marcus’ padded footsteps come to a halt next to him. Esca looks up.

Marcus’ waistcoat is buttoned up wrong.

“For fuck’s sake,” he chuckles. “Didn’t you ever learn to dress yourself? Or did you always have a house boy available to hold your hand and help you piss.” 

“You know me,” Marcus says drily. “Grand sultan of the Seven Deserts. I used to have two servants to tie each shoe, and one for every button on my shirt, but then I moved to Britain and all I got was you.” He sounds fond, though, and it makes Esca duck his head down, focusing on the buttons instead of staring up at Marcus and blushing.

“You know,” Esca eventually says. “You should just save yourself the brass, wear the other suit. She likely won’t notice _wot_ you wear. We all know Cottia’s absolutely barmy. She did choose you, after all.”

“Thanks,” Marcus snorts.

“But even if she is missing a few marbles, she ent bad,” Esca continues, feeling his breath quicken at what he’s about to ask next. “So…you’re dating, then?”

“What?”

Esca looks up, square into Marcus’ green-grey eyes.

“You and Cottia. She’s been over at the house almost every day this week.” Tries not to let the distress sneak into his voice. “Are you two dating?”

Marcus splutters, “She’s in _Year Nine_.”

“That’s not an answer,” Esca says, pulling back to tuck his hands into his armpits. “She’s a fine lass, Marcus. You don’t have to keep it a secret from me.”

A cloud of confusion drifts over Marcus’ face, followed by a furrowed brow like he’s thinking real hard. “Why?” he eventually asks. “Do _you_ like her?”

“What?” Esca asks, his eyes going round as plates. Marcus shutters up though, straightening his back and avoiding Esca’s incredulous gaze. 

Esca’s just about to deny the allegation, when the saleslady’s voice comes through the curtains.

“Yoohoo,” she trills, stepping past the curtains and into the fitting area. “All right, there, lads? Can I help with anything?”

She’s got the double-breasted jacket in hand, and they have Marcus try it on. The more conservative cut makes Marcus look like a banker or summat, instead of a fashion model like the previous suit. Either way, he might as well have stepped out the pages of G-bloody-Q Magazine. And either way, Esca can’t stop bloody staring. And wanting.

Marcus never did answer Esca’s question. If he and Cottia were dating.

Esca tries not to let it bother him, but it does.


	5. Placidus Tribune, Research Intern for the Office of the Inspector General in the Italian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Wanker Extraordinaire

Stephanos whaps Esca’s shoulder with a rolled up newspaper.

“Up you get, lad!”

Bloody hell. Esca opens his eyes; his bedside clock reads 5AM. That can’t be right. He doesn’t have to wake for another hour.

Shoves his head beneath his pillow, hoping the awful mirage of Stephanos will dissipate. But instead, it just whaps him again—

“Fuck off, mate,” Esca groans, curling up into the foetal position.

“We’re getting visitors today,” Stephanos says humourlessly.

Esca rolls onto his back, glaring up. “And they’re in the bloody drive, are they?” Stephanos raises a white, fuzzy eyebrow, but says nothing. “I didn’t think so,” Esca says. “So if you don’t mind…” He makes to grab his pillow, but Stephanos smacks it off the bed.

“Ey!”

“They’re coming at nine o’clock, and they’ll want breakfast. So, as I said—up you get.”

“What about Sassy?” Esca asks, in a voice that is most definitely not a whinge. “Can’t she clock in a couple hours early? You know it’s a miracle I haven’t set this place on fire yet, I’m a total berk in the kitchen.”

“She’s already gone off to the shop with Arnold, so you’ll be the last to complain.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Esca rotates onto his belly and gives a long, feline stretch. When he turns around, Stephanos is still there.

“A little privacy, yeah? I’m starkers, here, so can you just—you know—” Esca twitches his finger. “—bugger off?”

Stephanos looks offended, but he leaves anyway with the simple order to be downstairs in ten minutes.

“Urgh,” Esca moans, tempted to bury himself back underneath covers, but this ent the schoolmarm asking him, yeah? He’s getting bloody well paid to wake up when Stephanos says he wakes up.

With a world-weary sigh, Esca sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed.

He’ll just have to take out his grumpiness on Marcus in a couple hours. Maybe borrow that newspaper of Stephanos’ to wake him with, cos it was pretty effective-like.

The thought cheers him. Esca stands up in the nippy pre-dawn air, where his bits are trying to crawl back inside his body.

Esca scratches his bum, then pads over to his underwear drawer.

\-----

Breakfast comes and goes, but Esca never does see the visitors. He has to stay downstairs all morning, lest their eyes be sullied by the sight of the house staff. But then they’re out for the afternoon, touring the city with Aquila, and now it’s early evening.

They’re all in the parlour room, sitting around like Victorian politicans puffing cigars in their smoking jackets—but without the cigars and smoking jackets—  
while Esca pours them tea like a right bloody servant. The whole situation’s annoying enough, but to make matters worse, the younger guest is staring at him.

Esca looks over his shoulder, but there ent nothing there; nothing but a bookcase and a few planters. He turns back at the skinny brunette and frowns.

In return, the brunette winks at Esca.

Wot the bloody fuck?

“Ah, Marcus,” Aquila says, standing up as everyone turns to the entryway. Marcus’s hair is damp and his face looks freshly-scrubbed, like he just got out of the shower. He probably smells like Dove soap or Head and Shoulders. Not that Esca knows this cos he goes through Marcus’ bath products; he just happens to be the fucking cleaning lady of the home. So if Esca’s popped open the lid of Marcus’ shampoo once or twice, it was only cos it smells nice and not cos he’s a right creep, all right?

It’s growing warm inside the room. To distract himself, Esca refills everyone’s tea.

“Uncle,” Marcus greets, crossing the threshold.

“Let me introduce you to my good friend, Claudius Hiero,” Aquila says. “He’s come from Italy to undertake a diplomatic mission in Yorkshire, so I told him—why stay in a hotel all week when he could keep an old friend company?”

“We were colleagues, back in Rome,” Claudius explains, his round face shining with affection. “You should’ve seen your uncle in those days, Marcus! He could put away twelve pints faster than you could say _half-seas over_.“

“Now, now,” Aquila says, laughing heartily. “Best not to bring up old anecdotes, my friend. We mustn’t bore the youngsters with our reminiscing.”

Marcus says nothing, but he catches Esca’s eye and they exchange amused looks.

“Speaking of youngsters, I hope you’ll show Placidus a good time in England,” Aquila says. At the sound of his (bloody well ridiculous) name, Placidus rises from his squashy chair and shakes hands with Marcus.

“Placidus Tribune, Research Intern for the Office of the Inspector General in the Italian Ministry of Foreign Affairs,” he says. What Placidus’ voice lacks in natural authority, he makes up for in sheer pompousness.

“Ah, you see,” Claudius warmly interjects. “This is why I bring you along, Placidus. I can never quite remember the full name of our department.”

The men chuckle, the sound of it canned like the laugh track for an old sitcom. Least to Esca’s ears, anyway. Marcus takes a seat in the empty armchair next to his uncle, engaging polite conversation with the others as Esca tunes them out.

It’s bloody strange; Placidus keeps glancing at Esca, where he’s standing by the ficus. What, has he got something on his face? And what was with that naffing wink, earlier?

With a start, Esca realizes the men have stood up from their seats. Dinner must be ready. Esca straightens up, collecting the teapot before joining the line of Italians as they troop to dinner.

\-----

Only, Placidus holds him back.

“Apologies, gentlemen. I think I’ve misplaced my cell phone,” Placidus says, with an overly-familiar touch to Esca’s chest that stops him in place. “The boy can help me search. I’ll catch up with you all in a minute.”

Esca brushes him off. Has half a mind to tip hot tea all over Placidus for good measure.

“We can wait,” Marcus offers.

"Really, I insist. I won't hold up anyone else."

Marcus remains skeptical-looking, but eventually they are left alone.

Esca plunks the teapot down on the nearest surface and crosses his arms. “So. Did you check your arse for your bloody mobile? Cos I’m pretty sure there’s something stuck up there.”

He’d been aiming for rude, but apparently he misses the mark cos Placidus just grins at him with an interested glint in his eye.

“I knew you’d be fun,” Placidus says, sashaying forward. Esca would edge away, but he’d sooner die than back down from a skinny toff, so he holds his ground until Placidus is close enough to reach forward...

Esca looks down. Placidus is playfully twisting Esca’s shirt around his index finger, charcoal fabric against pale skin.

Esca looks up. “What are you doing?” he asks blankly.

“You’re cute,” Placidus declares. “Do you have to go home each night, or do you come with the house?”

Esca thinks he's heard wrong, cos who the hell says things like that? But Placidus just stands there, smirking at him, looking for all the world like an algebra-crunching, video-game-playing, sodding _hair parted to one side like someone’s bloody da_ sodding _neek,_ except for the part where he just hit on Esca with confidence enough to rival Charlie Sheen, but without the blow and broken hotel furniture.

“So?” Placidus prompts. He’s untangled his finger from Esca’s shirt and gone straight for skin instead, rucking up the hem to run a thumb along Esca’s hipbone. The sensation makes him shiver automatically; whether from revulsion or not, Esca couldn’t be bothered to ask himself. 

Asks Placidus instead, “Are you bloody mental? You’re two seconds from getting your face smashed in.”

“And yet, my face is still in one handsome piece,” Placidus hums, his hand roaming up to cradle Esca’s waist and tug him closer.

Fuck. Esca’s gonna deck him. He is. He _will._ Well, maybe after Placidus stops running his palm up and down Esca’s back, cos that feels rather fantastic, all honesty.

His other hand, however, comes from nowhere to grab Esca’s right buttock and _squeezes—_

Esca jumps with a curse, catching his hand on the underside of Placidus’ jaw.

It ent a hard hit, though. Not hard enough, that is. Placidus watches Esca, rubbing his clocked chin appraisingly. “Playing hard-to-get?” he asks with a smarmy grin. ”I don’t mind. I rather enjoy a challenge, actually.”

“What the bloody fuck is _wrong_ with you?” Esca screeches. “You don’t even know me. You don’t even know my bloody _name—_ “

“Esca?”

They both turn to look; Marcus is at the entryway, one hand on the wooden moulding, his head poked into the room.

If Esca were stupid enough to deign Placidus with eye contact right now, he’s sure he’d find a triumphant smirk in those eyes, the bloody bastard.

“You guys were taking awhile, so I came back to check,” Marcus says slowly, stepping into the parlour. “Should I call your number, Placidus?”

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” Placidus says merrily, whipping his head around to face Marcus. He reaches into his chinos and pulls out an iPhone, encased in reflective gold. “ _Esca_ here found it for me. I was just thanking the boy.”

Esca goggles, his face on fire. How can the tosser be so bloody _cavalier_ about what he’s just done? For fuck’s sake, Liathan was right. Creepy gits really do love molesting house staff.

Picking up the teapot, Esca shoves past the mini Strauss-Kahn-in-training and storms out of the parlour. Marcus sends him an inquisitive look as he passes, but Esca’s too flustered to make eye contact.

He’s just got to make it through dinner. And after that? He’ll bloody well lock his bedroom door ‘fore he sleeps tonight, cos maybe Esca’s only just met the bloody wanker and shared one sodding conversation—if one could even call it that—but he already knows:

Placidus Tribune, Research Intern for the Office of Inspecting Entirely Inappropriate Things, is going to be a well of trouble.

\-----

Dinner is a disaster.

Placidus spends the entirety of it sending Esca sly looks and meaningful licks of his spoon—a frankly impressive show of multi-tasking, as he also manages to brag relentlessly about all the influential politicians he’s rubbed elbows with at the Club d’Oro back home. This seems to grate on Marcus’ nerves, as Marcus hacks his steak into hamburger meat instead of slicing it like a normal human being.

All the while, Aquila and Claudius chinwag like two housewives hopped up on Adderall. 

Esca, for his part, mostly tries to hide in the shadows in attempts to avoid Placidus’ wordless innuendos cos it’s making him sick with embarrassment. Unfortunately, he’s forced to stick around to refill Aquila and Claudius’ wine glasses (about sixteen times, the lot of them growing ruddy in the face—Marcus too, whether from anger or constipation, Esca can’t really tell—while Placidus is the sole occupant to remain perfectly poised as he fellates his legumes).

After what seems an eternity, the four men finish their espressos and retire to the library, leaving Esca to help Stephanos clear the table. 

\-----

Esca wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, wrinkling his nose at the sterilizing scent of lemon-lime. Great. He smells like dishwashing detergent. Perfect for a proper house boy.

In a foul mood after a long, long day, Esca trudges up the stairs—tiptoes past the library, where the Aquilas continue to entertain their Roman guests—and slides into the bathroom to ready for bed. Esca scrubs his teeth so hard his gums bleed.

He’s feckin’ shattered. Usually, Esca will unwind with a bit of music in his room, earphones in as he texts back and forth with Liathan, or he’ll hang out with Rowan and help with his homework, their heads bowed together in the kitchen. More often than not, Esca winds up lolling about with Marcus, doing fuck-all for the remainder of the evening.

Not tonight, though. Tonight, Esca shuts himself into his bedroom cos Lord knows Stephanos will want to repeat the early routine tomorrow; for as long as the fucking houseguests are staying with them, probably. 

Esca falls back on his bed, savouring the feeling of closing his eyes before flipping onto his belly. He punches his pillow, then face-plants into it.

It eases around his cheeks, sinking with the weight of Esca’s head. The day’s worth of hard work slowly floats away. Without lifting his face too much, Esca shrugs out of his clothes, wriggles under the covers, and goes straightaway to sleep.

\-----

Someone’s knocking on his door.

It ent anywhere _near_ time to wake up—not from how Esca feels, at least, like he’s clinging to half an REM cycle and nuffink else, but the knocking on his door persists.

“Go ‘way,” Esca calls out grumpily, even as he grasps under his pillow for his mobile to check the time.

It’s a little after midnight.

The knocking gets louder.

“Jesus Christ,” Esca mumbles. Louder, “For fuck’s sake, I’m coming.”

He stumbles out of bed, noting the nighttime chill but not enough to bother putting trousers on. He’s wearing briefs, at least, and that’ll do for whoever’s bloody well interrupting his sleep right now.

“—the fuck do you want?” Esca slides out the bolt and snatches the door open.

Rears back, as Placidus is looming all-too near, his arm propped up on the door jamb, skinny hips cocked casually to one side.

“You ran away,” Placidus accuses.

Esca stares in disbelief. “I wake up in four hours, you pillock. Did you think I was gonna stick around to wipe your arses into the wee hours o’ the morning?”

“No,” Placidus says, raking his eyes down Esca’s body, “but I thought you’d wait up for me anyway.” 

Goosebumps rise all along Esca’s arms, his legs. He wishes he’d put on trousers. Or the blanket, at least; _something_ to cover up himself up with, lest his skin be eaten alive by Placidus’ carnivorous gaze.

Tucking his cold hands under his armpits, Esca scowls. “Look, Placidus. I might be a bloody indentured servant in this household, but that doesn’t mean I won’t kick your arse halfway into next week if you keep this up. I ent for sale. And I don’t _come wif the house,_ as you put it. So will you bloody well fuck off?”

“I’ll fuck off when you mean it,” Placidus smirks, and then he has the fucking audacity to close the gap between them, walking Esca backwards—

“You’re pushing it,” he says flatly.

“You like being pushed.”

It’s a bald-faced lie. Esca’s heart hammers in his chest; he swallows a little thrill of anticipation, tasting it at the back of his throat.

“I’m warning you…”

“Don’t pretend you weren’t looking back at me,” Placidus says, reaching up to tuck a curl of hair behind Esca’s ear. Esca twitches away, like a mosquito’s buzzing there.

“I wasn’t. I don’t know where you’re getting any of this,” Esca says, voice rising. “I don’t even _like_ blokes, all right? I don’t understand why everyone thinks I’m a bloody poof, cos I’m bloody well _not._ ” Not strictly true, but Marcus is the exception, not the rule.

“Then kick me out,” Placidus says, his voice ringing with challenge. “Because I still don’t believe you.”

Esca inhales sharply through his nose. He’s never dealt with anyone so bloody _obstinate_ before, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. And then it doesn’t matter what he does, cos Placidus is leaning down and pressing his lips against Esca’s—

He tastes like espresso, smoky and bitter—

Esca flattens his palms against Placidus’ expensive, lilac shirt, fingers tightening for a moment before he _shoves._

“—fucking _perv,_ ” Esca gasps, hand against his mouth as Placidus falls back.

Marcus’ door suddenly flies open, and Placidus has to jump away to avoid being swatted like a fly.

“Marcus,” Esca says, eyes going round just as Marcus hooks an arm around his waist and swings Esca behind himself.

With a few stuttering steps to regain his balance, Esca finds himself in Marcus’ room. His view to the corridor is blocked by Marcus’ bulk, but he can hear the conversation, clear as day.

“You’re a guest here,” Marcus says thunderously, “and I’ll respect that. But if you lay a hand on Esca—if you so much as _look_ at him again—I swear to God…”

Marcus trails off, followed by the sound of Placidus’ footsteps disappearing down the corridor.

Esca rises to his tiptoes, craning a look over Marcus’ broad shoulder. He’s caught off-guard when Marcus turns and catches his eye.

“Go to bed,” Marcus says, and it’s like he’s a different person than the one who just sent Placidus scampering like a timid mouse. With Esca, his eyes are soft, almost sad.

Esca nods tightly, wrapping his arms around himself as he makes to move past Marcus. But then he’s stopped, Marcus’ hand on the back of his bicep.

“I meant here,” Marcus says, quiet but commanding.

Esca’s mouth goes dry, but he manages to croak, “I can take care of myself.”

“I know that, Esca.” Marcus’ face darkens. “It’s him I don’t trust.”

Esca feels something hard lodge into his throat. For fuck’s sake, Marcus is too _good_ for this world.

“I don’t need you to be my fucking bodyguard,” Esca says, but it’s half-hearted.

Marcus doesn’t respond. Instead, he leaves the room and for a hanging moment Esca thinks he’s being abandoned. But then he hears the _flick_ of a switch, lights going off in his own bedroom as the corridor falls dark.

Marcus returns. Walks right past Esca, the muscled expanse of his back striped by shadows from the window blinds. Maybe it’s from lack of sleep, but Esca’s entire being aches as he watches him.

Marcus throws himself back under the covers.

Feeling all a bit useless, Esca wonders where Marcus wants him, or why he’s even here. There’s room enough on the floor, but not enough blankets—

Marcus lifts a corner of the sheets. “Come here,” he says gruffly.

Any other time, Esca would balk. He’s too fucking tired, though—it’s been a long-ass day, an interrupted night, and he’s got to do it all again tomorrow. So Esca complies.

Tries to stuff down the nervousness threatening to overtake him. _Act casual,_ he tells himself, as if _any_ of this is bloody well _casual_. But the freezing air beats out any last reservations, and Esca finally walks over. He climbs into bed with Marcus and pulls the body-warmed sheets over his tingling skin.

For half a breath, it seems like Marcus is going to wrap himself around Esca. They’re curled the same way at least, like quotation marks, and when the bed shifts it feels like Marcus is scooting closer.

Esca squeezes his eyes shut and licks his lips, waiting for Marcus’ arm to fall over his waist, or chest. He’ll tuck himself closer, won’t he? And Esca bets Marcus will feel like a furnace, all that Mediterranean skin hot against Esca’s rounded back. The flannel of Marcus’ lounge pants soft and worn against Esca’s calves, their feet slotted over each other like Jenga tiles.

Nothing happens, though, and when Esca reopens his eyes he feels Marcus flip over, making the bed rock with his movements until it stops, the two of them facing opposite directions.

Disappointment settles in Esca’s stomach like a sack of birdseed. He tries to make himself fall asleep, pacing his breaths to the steady ins and outs of Marcus’ respiration. But then he remembers—

“I wake up earlier than you,” Esca says, twisting his head towards Marcus, too lazy to actually turn around.

“I’ll set my alarm.”

The bed creaks under Marcus’ weight, and Esca hears some clicking noises from behind.

“What time?” Marcus asks.

“Five o’clock.”

“Fucking hell,” Marcus swears, but the clicking sounds continue. “If I fall asleep in History tomorrow, I’m blaming it on you.”

“Thas what you get, when you sleep with me. I’ll wake you up at ungodly hours,” Esca replies, the words out before he realizes how they sound. Bugger fuck. He drops his head back on the pillow and shrinks into a ball. Next to him, the sound of Marcus setting the alarm slows down, then stops.

Marcus swallows thickly, like he’s gonna say something. But it’s just silence—stretches on long enough for Esca to inwardly sigh and focus on falling asleep—when Marcus says, finally:

“Goodnight, Esca.” His voice sounds a little strange, but Esca could be imagining it. He probably is, in fact.

“G’night, berk.”

\-----

Placidus gets in front of Esca, holding up a finger. “We’re going to that dance,” he says.

“Like hell we are,” Esca scoffs, snapping a dirty dishrag at him. Placidus avoids it—something he’s gotten better at over the week—but he still takes a faceful of Flash when Esca spritzes him.

“Hey!” Placidus yells, his eyes scrunched-up. “Rude.”

“S’not rude if you’re being an idiot,” Esca reasons. “Now move. I’m trying to finish up before Cottia gets here.”

“But I’m bored,” Placidus says imperiously, “and it’s my last night here. Don’t you have a clause in your contract somewhere that states you have to entertain me?”

“I’m a domestic servant, not a bloody clown-for-hire,” Esca replies. “An’ even if I was, I could give two shits that you’re bored. I ent going to some bloody daft disco put on by poncy teachers and washed-up housewives. The whole thing’s gonna be dull as a footballer, so my final answer is—“ Esca tuts when Placidus opens his mouth—“no. Just—no. Now would you _get_? I'd have been done hours ago if you weren’t bloody well distracting me.”

“Distracting, huh?” Placidus asks slyly. The buffoon’s got decidedly selective hearing. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all week. Now,” Placidus adds, his voice going rhetorical. “How can I convince you of how fun this dance could be?”

Placidus reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a platinum flask, which looks to be engraved with his name in looping script, the vain bastard. “What do you say we liven up their party a little?” he suggests, waggling the container (and his eyebrows).

Esca huffs out a breath, blowing his fringe up. “I’d rather stay home and have a wank,” he says, turning around and squirting Flash onto the marble coffee table. In the corner of his eye, he sees Placidus shrug, then unscrew the cap of his flask and take a swig.

Faintly, but unmistakably, the doorbell rings.

“Bloody hell,” Esca grumbles, dropping his rag and wiping his palms on his thighs. “Finish up here, would’ya?” he says to Placidus, who simply wrinkles his nose in disgust.

The bell chimes again and Esca ditches the parlour room, quickening his steps until he’s yanking open the front door.

Cottia’s on the doorstep.

Well, it’s either Cottia or someone’s found her doppelganger and plucked her off the Hollywood red carpet, complete with shiny red heels, a red, sequined gown, and the perfectly made-up face of a 1930’s starlet.

“Hiya, Esca,” she says, grinning wide and daft and familiar. There’s lipstick on her teeth; so never mind, that’s Cottia all right.

“You’re early,” Esca says, blinking a bit as he stands back to let her in. “I’ll get Marcus.”

“Hold on,” Cottia says, her voice giddy.

Without further explanation, she dashes inside, holding her skirts as she reaches the back of the house, then disappears around the corner in the direction of the staircase.

Esca rubs his nose, then jogs after her.

He isn’t surprised when Placidus shows up and paces him. “Is that the weird girl who’s always coming over?” he asks, smelling of whisky. Esca’s mouth waters a little; he could do with a stiff swallow or two, now.

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t know she was actually pretty,” Placidus replies thoughtfully.

“Don’t you dare,” Esca warns.

This time, it’s Placidus’ turn to send Esca a withering look. “Come on. She’s like what, thirteen? I’m not a pedophile, here.”

“Yeah, actually, you are. I’m sixteen.”

“You’re legal,” Placidus counters. “Besides, she’s missing some equipment that I require in my conquests.” He tries to tug Esca closer, but Esca automatically shoves him off.

They finally catch up to Cottia, who has for some inscrutable reason climbed the staircase.

“What are you doing up there?” Esca calls out.

“I’ve always wanted to walk down a staircase for a prom, yeah?” Cottia replies as she fusses with her hair. “Have you ever seen _She’s All That_? It’s one of my favourite films of all time. Freddy Prinze Jr. was quite attractive, don’t you think? Sarah Michelle Gellar is bloody lucky, though she’s lovely too so it’d be unfair to—“

“You’re a bloody nutcase, you know that?” Esca laughs. “This isn’t a prom. And this ent even your own home!”

“Details, love. Now come on, go get Marcus! Make sure he stands where Lassie is now, cos that’s the best angle. I checked the other day.” Cottia claps her hands excitedly, even as Placidus sneers at her.

“It’s Placidus, not _Lassie_. I’m not a stupid collie from a black and white TV show,” Placidus complains, taking out his flask again.

Esca snorts, pocketing his hands as he makes his way to Marcus’ bedroom. His cheer quickly evaporates, however; stopped in front of Marcus’ door, Esca remembers precisely why he was trying to finish the day’s chores early.

Last weekend, that first sight of Marcus all suited up had been enough to fuel Esca’s wanks for the better part of the week. And now, having to send him off looking the way he looks—outrageously fit—into the arms of a smitten lass, well…let’s just say Esca was hoping to avoid it all, really.

Before he loses his nerve, Esca knocks on Marcus’ door.

“Cottia’s here,” he says through the wood.

Marcus opens the door. “Already?” he asks, looking anxious as he fiddles with the knot of his blood-red tie.

Esca bites the inside of his cheek, chest thumping at a horse’s gallop as he takes in the sight. He’d seen Marcus wear the charcoal suit, yeah, but instead of pairing it with classic white he’d opted for a navy shirt so dark it could be black. It’s dead sexy, and his gorgeous eyes look greener than ever as he watches Esca carefully.

“Do you think the blue’s okay? My white shirt had a stain.”

“It looks fine,” Esca says, swallowing hard. “Better than fine. Okay? You look good. Really good.” Fuck, he’s flustered. Esca reaches forward and starts adjusting Marcus’ tie, if only to keep his hands busy.

Marcus dips his head down, like he’s watching the progress. A faint smile adorns his face, hopeful and pleased. He probably wants to make sure he’s dressed to impress Cottia tonight.

Esca jerks the knot of Marcus’ tie to the center, then smoothes it out with a long slide of three fingers down the length of the silk.

Above him, Marcus’ lips part. “I wish you were coming,” he says tentatively. “It’d be more fun if you were there.”

“You don’t have to feel sorry for me. I ent sore about not being allowed in,” Esca replies, pulling back. “Didn’t want to go to some naffing school disco, anyway.”

“Still,” Marcus says quietly.

Esca lets go of Marcus’ tie, taking a step back to scrutinise his work. Takes his tongue out of the corner of his mouth when he realizes, embarrassedly, he’d been sticking it out.

“All right. Fit for public consumption, I s’pose,” Esca says. “Come on, Cottia’s waiting.”

\-----

She’s regal, walking down the stairs. Doesn’t even look like herself, yeah? Cottia’s some beautiful blonde actress with soft, wavy curls framing her face, and mascara or summat that makes her eyes look huge and sultry. Hell, even Esca feels something stir in him. Just a little, though—she’s still _Cottia,_ fer chrissakes.

Esca sneaks a peek to his right, then immediately wishes he hadn’t. Marcus looks dumbfounded, like he can’t really believe it’s her either.

Cottia glides to the bottom of the staircase, fluttering her eyelashes up at Marcus, waiting for him to say suffink except he’s too busy drooling, like. 

Esca elbows Marcus in the side, hard.

“Oh!” Marcus starts. “You look, uh. Really nice.”

“Thank you,” Cottia says graciously, sounding much older than she actually is. But then a giggle comes out, and she pops open her glittering red purse to pull out a boxed corsage.

“Here you go,” she says, bouncing on her toes as Marcus looks down like she’s handed him a brassiere or something equally confounding. “It’s a corsage,” she explains. “You put it on my wrist, like a bracelet. And then I pin this boutonniere on you.”

“This isn’t some American _prom,_ ” Esca hisses, but Cottia ignores him and starts regaling Marcus with which John Hughes scenes she’d like to emulate over the course of the evening. Esca stops listening.

To his left, Placidus picks his ear with his pinky. “So are we going or not?” 

To his right, Marcus glances over like he’s eavesdropping.

“I already told you—“ 

“There, all set,” Cottia says proudly, dusting off Marcus’ chest, where a velvety red rosebud now sits upon his breast pocket. “Don’t you look handsome.” She turns to Esca. “Don't you think he looks handsome, Esca?”

"To a blind person, maybe,” he mumbles. Now Placidus is watching him closely, and Esca wishes everyone would stop bloody staring at him, he ent got three heads, has he? 

A flash of light pops into the air, blinding Esca temporarily.

“That’s one for the Facebook,” Aquila says genially, and when Esca’s vision resumes, he sees the old man lifting a giant camera.

“Towards me, now,” Aquila says, watching the camera screen. “Okay, that’s good.”

“Cheese,” Cottia says, going up on tiptoe to press her cheek against Marcus’. She looks wobbly until Marcus winds a sturdy arm around her tiny waist.

Esca doesn’t even try for a smile, just glares at the lens. But then he feels Placidus drape all over him, jostling a look of surprise just as the flash goes again, bloody great.

“Ugh,” Esca says, shrugging off Placidus, who’s feckin’ heavy for such a skinny bloke.

“So shy,” Placidus hums.

“So perverted,” Esca hisses back.

Aquila makes Marcus and Cottia pose for more photographs, alone. Then Aquila warns Cottia not to take advantage of Marcus, to have him home before eleven o’clock—Esca secretly agreeing with him—and only after several more minutes of faffing about do they bundle off towards the garage where Marcus will be personally driving Cottia to the Snow Ball.

As they disappear out the side entrance, Marcus looks like a Disney prince walking off with a (much shorter, and very red) Disney princess. They just need a pumpkin coach or summat, it’s enough to make Esca sick. Or want to punch something.

Esca turns to Placidus.

“Hey, hey,” Placidus says, holding up his hands with a wary look in his eyes. “It’s not my fault—“

“Shut up,” Esca snaps, holding out his hand. It only takes a beat for Placidus to get it, and when he does he grins, pulling his flask out from behind.

Esca takes it, tips it back. Drains it like it's water.

“Whoa, whoa, slow down. That’s the good stuff,” Placidus says, beckoning with his hand until Esca finally returns the flask, and only then cos it’s empty.

Esca wipes his tingling mouth with the back of his wrist. He can feel the liquor burning away his stomach lining. Good; thas when you know it's working. “We’re going,” he says determinedly.

Placidus lights up like a Christmas tree. “Sweet. Okay, just—let me refill this, and then we’ll go find Arnold. He’s always on duty, right? Unlike some people.”

“How many bloody times do I have to tell you, I ent a _slave._ ”

“Pity. I could make you do anything then, couldn’t I?” Placidus licks his lower lip and reaches out to thumb Esca’s mouth.

Esca jerks away. “You know I can’t stand you?” he grumps.

“Doesn’t mean you don’t want to fuck me,” Placidus replies smugly.

Esca’s ears go warm, damn them.

\-----

"I'm afraid she may be..." Placidus leans in and stage-whispers, " _intoxicated_. I found this in her room not an hour ago." He holds up his flask.

The volunteer behind the counter eyes the container with doubt. Esca hopes the two of them don't smell like whisky. He sure as hell feels like whisky. Her name tag reads 'Helen'.

Helen asks, "Who was your sister was again?"

"Didn’t I said already?" Placidus scoffs, sounding offended. "Her name is...Julie. Julie Andr—"

"Molly Aiken," Esca interrupts. As Helen looks down at her guest list, Esca hisses out of the corner of his mouth, "Lord above. _Julie Andrews?_ "

"It was that or Beyonce," Placidus murmurs back.

"Poofter."

"At least I’m out."

Esca leans over the peeling counter, looking for Molly’s name. It’s right at top, alphabetical, like. He reaches over to point it out. 

"Aha, Molly Aiken," she says, looking up through her dyed-red fringe. "Could you show some ID—"

"No time," Placidus says, breezing towards the door with his flask held up in the air. "Intoxicated, right? There's no telling _what_ Maggie will do!"

Esca follows him, hunched over and trying to look nonchalant.

"Wait," Helen protests, twisting in her folding chair as they pass the counter. "And who's he?"

"Boyfriend!" Placidus disappears into the gym.

"Babysitter," Esca corrects vehemently. Then he, too, pushes through the metal swing door, if only to catch Placidus' skinny arse and beat it to a pulp.

\-----

Inside, it’s dark as Liathan's bedroom, the entire space lit only by the green and red Christmas lights strung drunkenly across the walls and a few coloured spotlights. One of them’s pointed to a cheesy disco ball that tosses white flecks across the gymnasium in slow, dizzying revolutions. 

Though a few couples dance awkwardly on the main floor, almost everyone’s loitering by the food, where long folding tables carry cheap tubs full of crisps and sweeties. A punch bowl, the size of a hug, oversees a an army of plastic cups.

Placidus makes a beeline for it.

"What are you doing?" Escs asks, feeling like a harried mother as he chases after him.

"What's it look like I'm doing?" Placidus grins, halting by the punch where a mousey-looking kid helps himself to a cupful. Placidus slaps his hand away and grabs the ladle himself, then starts stirring the bowl, shooing him away.

"This isn't happening," Esca groans.

"Whatever you say. Now help me pour."

Esca makes a disgruntled noise, but still he reaches inside Placidus' open coat—resolutely ignores the lurid noises coming above him—and digs out the flask. Off comes the cap, and then Esca’s tipping it over…

“What are you doing?” someone calls out, indignant.

Esca freezes. Placidus stops stirring.

“I _acksed_ you, mate. The fuck you throwing away good booze for?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake, It’s just Lie-Lie. Esca rights the flask and turns around, expecting to see his friend but standing there instead is some bloody ponce in a tailored, three-piece suit and his hair—oh Jesus, his _hair_ —

Esca bursts out laughing.

“You—you—“

“Fuck’s wrong wif you?” Liathan asks, but clearly, he knows cos his hand comes up and self-consciously cards through dark strands, which—instead of its usual, gravity-defying arrangement—lies flat against his half-shaved head in a surprisingly successful attempt at respectability, the ends tucked demurely behind one ear.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph’s right pierced nipple, wot the fuck happened to your hair? Can’t get it up no more?” Esca snorts. “S’okay, mate. Happens to the best of us. When we’re eighty, like. But you know, I s’pose it’s all right to let yourself go when you’re dating your little sister—“

Liathan’s eyes widen.

“—ent a big deal, yeah. You’ve got enough sisters it’s almost impossible _not_ to snog one’a them at some point—“ Oh fuck, thas the whisky talking, innit?

“I’m gonna _murder_ you, you little shit,” Liathan growls, lunging forward.

Esca backs into Placidus, treading on one Italian-soled foot. “Oops, sorry,” he apologizes.

“No problem,” Placidus replies, hands coming up to keep Esca balanced. It feels nice, Placidus against his back, hands on his arms. Fuzzy, like. Liathan socks him in the gut.

Esca crumples over, groaning. “ _Fffuck_.”

“Teach you to run your feckin’ mouth off. The fuck you doin’ here, anyway? Thought you weren’t allowed in.”

“M’not,” Esca says, from somewhere on the ground, cos he wound up there, somehow. “Lassie wanted to come,” he gestures, something icy-wet sloshing down his wrist. Ah, he’s still holding the flask. Takes a swig, likes the warmth going down his throat, into his stomach—

“Come on, lightweight,” Placidus says, hauling him to his feet. “You get one freebie on that ‘Lassie’ shit, but no more. So stop hoarding the whisky, and share like a good boy.”

“Fine,” Esca mumbles, letting Placidus steer him towards the punch bowl. His sticks him arm out, aiming for the bright red liquid, but someone plucks the flask from his hand first.

Liathan throws back the whisky. _Glug glug glug,_ goes his Adam’s apple.

 _Oooh,_ Esca thinks gleefully. Placidus will go mental. The Italian prat always has to have his way. Esca blinks up to see if Placidus’ gone mental. But he don’t look it. Ent even watching Lie-Lie, proper; Lassie’ straight brows are furrowed, and Esca belatedly realizes he’s trying to get Esca to stand up straight with fruitless shoves at his shoulders.

Esca stands up straight, turns around in the skinny ring of his arms.

“Wot?” he asks, their faces near-touching. “What d’you want?” he asks, less belligerent. Placidus’ eyes are dark—too dark to tell what colour in this lighting. They’re not green; he would’ve noticed. _Marcus’_ eyes are green.

“Ugh, get a room,” Liathan grouses, tossing something metallic and hollow-sounding onto the hardwood floor.

“No need to get jealous,” Esca replies, though his eyes are still fixed on Placidus’ face, which has slightly devious. “You’ve always got Aileen, haven’t you?”

Liathan’s eyes bulge. Then with a streaky move—Esca too addled to keep track, proper—Liathan raises his fist.

“Oi!”

Liathan stops and turns at the girlish voice. After a beat, Esca looks too.

Aileen skips over from the dance floor, her long, French braids bouncing like licorice whips behind her.

“You’ve got to come dance, Lie-Lie! They’re playing Robyn, but Cottia’s date won’t dance ‘less there’s another boy doing it, and _she_ doesn’t care but I feel like a right fockin’ naff being the only one—oh, hi Esca,” she says, stopping short. The bristly end of one braid immediately veers towards her mouth, twisted around a nervous finger. One of her habits, long as Esca’s known her.

“Hey Aileen,” Esca says, suddenly self-conscious about how bloody wankered he is. Liathan’s kid sister’s only what—twelve? Thirteen, now? He ent setting the best example, is he? Fuck; he thinks briefly of Davina, feeling guilty.

“Will you—erm, d’you want to come dance wif us?” Aileen asks, gnawing on the end of her braid, doll eyes beseeching.

“Only if you get Liathan to dance, too,” he replies automatically.

“ _Liathan…_ ” Aileen pleads, turning her wobbling lip to her big brother.

“You lot are bloody wankers,” Liathan gripes to no one in particular, letting Aileen grab his wrist and drag him towards the centre of the gym which has filled up some since Esca last looked.

Spinning around, Esca walks backwards with an eyebrow cocked at Placidus. “Coming? If you’re lucky, I might pencil you in on my dance card,” he says cheekily.

Placidus grins, snaking after him through the crowd, hands in his pockets. “Only if they put on some real music. Robyn has got to be the gayest shit ever produced.”

“Says the gay man,” Esca smirks.

“Says the gay man,” Placidus agrees.

Esca’s back hits up against someone—Liathan, he thinks, if the shove back is intentional—but Placidus keeps coming forward, keeps coming ‘til his hands slide inside the flaps of Esca’s motorcycle jacket and his fingers lace at the small of his back, cool through Esca’s thin, white t-shirt. Fuck, it’s warm inside the gym, ‘specially with all the folks milling about, now.

“We can’t dance yet. It’s still Robyn,” Esca points out. But he recognizes the look in Placidus’ eye and knows it don’t make a bloody difference _what’s_ playing overhead, Placidus has got other things on his mind. Things that Esca won’t run from, not this time. The whisky in his blood’s making him crave the touch, his skin singing at any bit of attention.

Placidus’ gaze slips down. Esca bites his lip in anticipation.

Someone grabs Esca by the scruff of his jacket and _yanks._

“—fuck’s sake!” Esca yelps as he’s tugged into a half-circle of Liathan and Aileen, Cottia and Marcus…

_Marcus_

Esca panics, shaking off Marcus’ hand like a dog thrashing a squeaky toy. “Get off,” he says, hopping away with terse shrugs of his jacket. When he looks at Marcus, he’s first confused by the way the room twirls around the two of them, only to remember he’s three sheets to the wind and lucky to be standing on two feet, aye.

“Esca, what are you doing here?” Marcus asks disbelievingly, his hands opening and closing by his sides like he wants to check it’s really him. “I thought you couldn’t come.”

“You made it! That’s lovely,” Cottia says happily, bumping Marcus aside so she can squeeze Esca so tight his vision goes a little blurry. Pecks him on the cheek—something tickles, and Esca wipes the spot with the back of his hand, smudging ruby red lipstick across it.

“ _You’ll_ dance,” Cottia says, grabbing Esca’s hand with the both of hers. “I _know_ you’ll dance. We can’t get these bloody boys to show us some fun, but I saw you in the kitchen once, you were brilliant. The broom made such a lovely prop, the way you swung it about—“

Esca clears his throat, giving Liathan (and his evil grin) a look of warning. “I don’t—no, Cottia. I don’t want to dance.”

“You sure?” Marcus teases. “Whenever I see you on one end of the hallway, I usually take cover. I don’t want to get a flying leap to the face.”

Esca huffs the fringe out of his eyes. “I’ll _flying leap_ you right here,” he complains, giving him the two-finger salute. Easily absorbs Marcus’ playful shove when it comes, then retaliates by planting two palms on Marcus’ shoulders to push back, when suddenly—he notices something on Marcus’ neck. It’s a red splotch, too bright to be a bruise or nuffink.

“What’s wrong?” Marcus asks, hands coming up to cover Esca’s like he’s gonna peel them off his chest, only he doesn’t, just rests them there.

The splotch on Marcus’ neck. It’s lipstick. Esca’s sure of it.

Marcus has got Cottia’s lipstick on his neck. 

And when he looks closer—fuck, it’s on Marcus’ lips, too. Faintly pink, like he was trying to rub it off, but didn’t do a great job.

Esca snatches his hands back. “I—erm, I’ve got to go.”

“What?” Cottia frets. “But you only just got here!”

“I don’t want to bleeding _dance,_ Cottia!” Esca snaps, pivoting out of the circle of their friends and stalking towards the exit.

He makes it about three or four people deep, but Marcus’ voice is clear behind him.

“Esca.”

Esca keeps his head down; maybe he can lose him in the crowd—

“Esca!”

—but bugger shite, he’s still got to wait for Arnold to come around with the car, doesn’t think he can shake—

“ _Esca—_ ”

With a sense of déjà-vu, Esca feels his collar jerked backwards. He whirls around.

“Oi, I’m not a sodding _dog_.”

Marcus ignores him. “Look, we were just joking about the dancing. I mean, you’re actually pretty good. So will you stop being mad at us and stay?”

“I’m not fucking MAD, you berk! Do we look like bloody pre-teens, here? Do you want me to braid your fucking hair? And after that we can gossip about boys and manicures and pretty frocks, because apparently you think we’re twelve years old and I’m _mad_ at you.”

“If you aren’t mad, then why are you yelling?” Marcus asks, and the huge drop in volume points out the fact that Esca is, indeed, yelling.

“Cos I’m _drunk,_ ” Esca cries, not caring one way or the other that the students around them have begun to scatter.

“Oh. That explains why you smell like Uncle.”

_Why he smells like—_

That steals a laugh from Esca’s throat, too fast to stifle. Fuck’s sake, the shite Marcus spews sometimes, like he doesn’t even know he’s being ridiculous. The daft bugger’s always making Esca laugh his nuts off, and for half a moment he forgets why he’s pissed off—cos Marcus is right, he _is_ mad—but then he sees Cottia’s lipstick again, and the same pang hits his chest and makes him want to punch Marcus all over again.

Instead, he turns away.

“Wait,” Marcus says, and at least it ent his collar he’s catching this time, just Esca’s wrist. “Come on, don’t go.”

Esca bites the inside of his cheek. 

He wants to ask…it’s stupid, though. But he wants to ask. So he asks.

“Were the two of you kissing?”

Marcus blinks at him. “What?”

It’s out there now; no taking it back. Esca spins around. “You and Cottia. Were you kissing? Cos you’ve got—“ Esca scratches the side of his own neck, making Marcus clap his hand where the lipstick is and come away with a damning smear. “Yeah. That.”

“No! It’s not,” Marcus protests. “Well, it is. But she kissed me. Not the other way around.” Marcus’ face falls. “Look, if you like her, Esca—“

“I don’t. Not that way.”

“Then why are you mad—I mean, upset with me?”

“Jesus Christ,” Esca says, colouring up. “I’m not, okay?” Cos he isn’t. Not at Marcus; he didn’t do nuffink wrong. It’s Esca who’s bollocksed everything up with his naffing _feelings_. “Sorry, look—I’m just, I dunno. Too drunk for this. I’m going home.”

“Wait—” Marcus says, grabbing Esca’s shoulders and holding fast. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. There’s something I wanna tell you. Something…I don’t think you’ll like. But I don’t want you to leave with the wrong idea.”

An aggro fist clenches itself around Esca’s heart. “I’d rather you not, actually,” he says, voice sounding funny in his own ears.

“Will you just listen, please? I…I wasn’t going to say anything ‘cause I don’t want to mess things up between us, like—like put you in a weird position, since you work for my uncle. And I _really_ don’t want you to leave. “

God, he’s really gonna say it, isn’t he? Marcus and Cottia are dating. It couldn’t be anything else. Esca closes his eyes and tries to wriggle out from Marcus’ hands, but they just slide down to Esca’s arms and anchor him in place.

“But I don’t care anymore, okay? I can’t keep pretending—especially with that _asshole_ hanging all over you—“

Esca’s ears perk, despite the fog dampening his senses. He isn’t quite sure where Marcus is going with this anymore.

“—I just…I need to tell you,” Marcus says, not a little desperately. He wets his lower lip and searches Esca’s eyes, like he’s hoping Esca can read his mind. But he can’t. Esca’s flummoxed. Marcus’ face is swimming a little, Esca’s brain inching along at the speed of a snail.

“So tell me,” Esca finally prompts.

Marcus swallows visibly. “Promise me first you won’t leave.”

Esca tilts his head, frowning. As he opens mouth to answer that it’ll depend what Marcus has to say, he spies Placidus weaving through the students.

“Esca?” Marcus asks apprehensively.

Placidus arrives, collecting Esca under his arm. Marcus clenches his jaw, which goes square. Bugger, Marcus must really hate the bloke.

“Come on,” Placidus says, swiping a casual finger down Esca’s bicep from where his hand is draped. “I called the car. Arnold’s picking us up behind the school.”

Marcus flicks a suspicious gaze between the two of them. Like a cat baiting a canary, Placidus grins. Marcus can barely keep his cool; his eye is doing that twitching thing, like when Cottia tries to put mascara on him or Inter Milan loses a game.

“Yeah, so…I’m ready,” Esca says, cos the tension between the boys can only end in someone—well, Placidus—getting a beating. “I want to go home.”

“Let me drive,” Marcus starts. “I just have to grab my coat—“

“No,” Esca says sharply. “Cottia’s been looking forward to this for weeks. I won’t have you ruin it for her.”

“She won’t care,” Marcus replies, but his voice is reluctant, like he knows he’s lost the argument already.

“Goodnight, Marcus,” Esca firmly states. “I’ll see you at home.”

Before they turn, he thinks he sees Placidus wink at Marcus, but that could just be the vertigo. On the other hand, Marcus grabs at Placidus’ shoulder and growls, quietly but audibly:

“If you touch him, I swear to God—“

“Look, I wouldn’t do anything Esca doesn’t want,” Placidus says mischievously.

“You got him _drunk—_ ”

“Give him some credit, Marcus. He’s a grown man. He got himself drunk.”

Esca’s not getting into this. He’ll step in if he has to, but honestly, it’s taking all his physical prowess just to stay upright.

Even quieter—but Esca’s ears are attuned, so he makes it out—Marcus says threateningly, “By the gods, Tribune, I don’t trust you.”

“Good. You shouldn’t.”

With an incredulous shake of his head, Esca starts walking. Doesn’t look back.


	6. Esca is a Shameless Slag When Intoxicated and Fairly Sure Placidus Has No Right Being That Hung

He bursts out of the gymnasium with a deep lungful of cold, dry air.

“Esca!”

Placidus catches up with him, swinging an arm over his shoulders. It’s bloody freezing out, yeah? So Esca buries his face into Placidus’ armpit and sticks his hands in Placidus’ coat pockets.

“Oh…hey.” A hand comes down over the back of Esca’s neck, fingers cold but the weight of them, nice. “You’re pretty plastered, aren’t you?”

“Ney,” Esca mumbles, except it comes out ‘aye’. He feels Placidus chuckle, the scratchy wool of his coat tickling Esca’s cheek. And when Esca opens his eyes, sometime later (or is it right away?), the long shadows they cast combine to make one four-legged monster that totters off to the car park.

\-----

Esca falls back on his mattress, and it feels like the grandest thing in the world. For fuck’s sake, who _knew_ his bed could feel so nice? And when did his body start to weigh twenty stone? He’s sinking through to the ground; his hands are paperweights, fisted in Placidus’ woollen lapels.

“Oof,” Placidus grunts, stumbling onto the bed as he braces himself over Esca. His knobby knees bracket Esca’s; his large hands splay by Esca’s ears.

“You’re in my bed,” Esca grins. His bed: the one place Placidus has been trying to get in all bloody week. Only something’s not right; now that Placidus is _here_ , he looks less than victorious. In fact, he looks like he’s sucking a lemon.

“I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” Placidus says, his face gone all funny. It’s a new look on him. Placidus never looks anything but confident, or horny. Esca’s not even sure what this expression is—

“It’s _concern,_ you jailbait lush.”

“Oh, so suddenly I’m too young for you?” Esca asks, hitching up to his elbows. “What happened to, oh, _you’re legal_ or, oh, he got _hisself_ drunk, or yeah, _I’m a bloody perv and I fuck whatever moves?_ ”

“I never said that.”

“The first parts, yeah, you did. And you were right. I _am_ legal,” Esca breathes, reaching up to tug at Placidus’ lapel. “And I want you.”

At least, he wants Placidus to lie down on him. Cos Esca’s feeling bloody horny and dopey and fantastic, and his eyelids are heavy as sandbags and he wants nothing more in the world than for Placidus to bloody well _do it,_ to just fuck him already, make him feel good the way he’s been promising all fucking week—

“Fuck, Esca,” Placidus pants. “Okay, okay. Jesus Christ, I’ll do it. Just stop talking.”

Esca feels Placidus buckle down to his elbows, springs shifting under them. He feels Placidus’ hand touch his face, leaving an electric wake as it drags down his cheek, down the side of his neck. Esca cranes his chin up, wanting more.

 _Fuck,_ Placidus says under his breath. Esca hears it though—eggs him on, saying _yeah._

“Yeah,” Esca whinges, wrapping him arms around the back of Placidus’ neck and pulling him down. His mouth descends, and maybe Esca would be nervous about it—kissing, cos he hasn’t done much of it, doesn’t know what he’s doing—but it feels bloody _good,_ warm and engulfing and naughty, much like the whisky thrumming through him.

They get on like that for awhile, snogging like drunk bastards at the end of the world. Placidus’ hand feels huge as it sneaks under Esca’s shirt and along his spine, all the way up between Esca’s shoulder blades. Placidus near lifts him with that hand alone, pressing insistently upwards until Esca gets the hint—pushes Placidus off to the side so he can rip off his leather jacket, yank his t-shirt over his head like it’s drowning him.

When they come together again, Placidus’ coat is nowhere to be found, and the plastic buttons of his shirt are cold against Esca’s chest, making his nipples pebble, or maybe that’s from the teasing way Placidus is flicking them with his thumbs.

“Gods, yeah,” Esca groans, arching into it like it’s supposed to feel incredible or summat; doesn’t really, his nips aren’t sensitive like a girl’s, but what _does_ feel incredible is Placidus’ hands on his trousers-front, rubbing Esca’s hard-on through the denim as he sucks a bruise to the side of Esca’s neck.

“I told you,” Placidus says, once he’s come up for air. “I told you it’d be good. We could’ve been doing this all week.”

“Fuck you,” Esca bites, wriggling his hips to encourage what’s happening down there. Placidus finally stops teasing; he flips open the button and unzips Esca’s jeans. “Fuck me,” Esca gasps.

“Not yet,” Placidus says, but promises, “Later.”

The _fuck me_ was metaphorical, but Esca doesn’t correct him. He’s a little distracted by the way Placidus is warming his fingers on Esca’s cock—oh God, there are hands are on Esca’s _cock_ —and he’s a little embarrassed when a blurt of precum leaks out, but quickly turns exasperated when Placidus lifts his fingers to show him with a gleeful smile. Placidus pinches his forefinger and thumb together, revealing a sticky string of precum when they part.

“That was fast,” he taunts.

“S’not like I came,” Esca barks back. “Trust me, you’ll know when I’m coming. It’ll be all over your poncy face.”

“That so? I expect I’ll find out in about sixty seconds. Though it’d be impressive if you can shoot that far when I’m giving it to you from behind.”

Esca digs his nails into his palm, hard as he can, but he can’t even feel them so it’s no use—his cock twitches, dribbling another bit of precum onto his lower belly from where it’s peeking out of his briefs.

“That’s what I thought.”

“Fuck you,” Esca complains. “Shut up and _do it_ then.”

Placidus makes a sound that’d be embarrassing for him if he weren’t such a shameless git. He’s off Esca in an instant, kneeled up and working open the front of his own trousers.

Esca’s face feels hot. He covers it with his hands—thinks better of it and relocates them inside his briefs, encircling the base of his dick and squeezing just this side of too hard.

Above him, Placidus still has all his clothes on, but now he’s hanging out of his trousers…

_Oh._

Esca blinks, wondering if the liquor running through him’s playing tricks. But his eyes are fine; the sight remains.

The _fact_ remains: Placidus is bloody well _hung_.

“It won’t fit,” Esca gapes.

“Hm?”

Fuck, get it together. “Nuffink.” Though it explains a lot. The confidence, namely. Placidus could prolly kill someone with that cock, split him in two. Or choke him to death. What a humiliating way to go. _Death by cock._

“Are you okay?” Placidus asks doubtfully, stroking his dick (oh Jesus Christ, he ent even fully _hard_ yet).

“I’m fine.” Esca says, digging his thumbs into his waistband and shimmying his jeans off his hips. Starts struggling when he gets to his knees, but these trousers, there’s a method to ‘em, see—Liathan might give him shit for his skinny jeans, but they’re comfortable, yeah—

“It’s kind of wrong how cute you are,” Placidus smirks, leaning down. 

“I’ll _end you,_ ” Esca snarls, but the viciousness is tempered by the way Placidus has to help drag his jeans off, Esca’s legs in the air.

“Not before I take care of this.” All of a sudden, Placidus is kissing him again, and it’s much preferred to his talking so Esca kisses back with abandon.

Down below, he feels his cock—his rather unimpressive cock, comparatively—strains against Placidus’ palm. Placidus gently cups his balls, holding them out of the way as he pulls down Esca’s boxers just low enough for access. 

He spits into his palm. Envelops Esca’s dick with it, slick and wet. 

“Shit,” Esca curses, flinging his arm over his eyes as Placidus starts pumping him, his strokes long and earnest like he’s trying to draw water out of a dry well. Only Esca ent dry, not in _any_ sense of the word, and it’s too much. He’s too horny—Placidus won’t stop—

“ _Lassie—_ ”

“Oh my God, shut _up,_ ” Placidus says, putting his free hand on Esca’s bare thigh for leverage as he jacks him harder, faster. “If you call me that again I’m gonna stop.”

But he doesn’t, and so Esca comes, silently, eyes squinched shut, teeth bared in a grimace. His hips buck and Placidus has to hold him down as he continues working Esca’s cock, his thumb firm and hard against the belly of his dick like when Esca’s massaging out someone’s muscles. Except it’s his _dick,_ and he just came and Placidus has got to—

“Stop, stop,” Esca gasps. “Oh my God stop, too much.” He shoves Placidus off with a square foot to the chest. “ _Stop._ ”

Placidus tumbles back, rear end perched on his heels as he devours Esca with his eyes. He licks his fingers, which—Esca would blush if he weren’t overheated already—are covered in Esca’s spunk.

“Ninety seconds.”

“What?”

“How long it took for me to get you off.”

“Shut up, will you?” Esca says, but he’s too wrung out to make a proper stink about it.

“Not unless you help me with this,” Placidus says, crawling forward again until he’s eye-level with Esca…

At which point, Placidus sends a meaningful look between his legs.

A quick glance makes Esca’s heart race again. Placidus is hanging down, completely erect. His cock is wider around the middle, with a flared, mushroom head gone slightly purple. 

The image is a bit terrifying. But it’s hot, too. Mostly hot. Esca wets his lips. Placidus kisses him with a loud _smack_.

“Flip over,” Placidus says, pushing at Esca’s side to help him roll onto his belly, which—ew, that’s a lot of cold, sticky come he just got all over his blanket. Whatever; he’ll just add it to the laundry tomorrow—

Placidus spanks him with a loud, crystal clear _crack._

_“Ow!”_ Esca yelps, shooting an affronted stare over his shoulder at Placidus, who looks entirely too happy with himself. “The fuck you do that for, eh? I ent into that shit, not gonna call you _daddy,_ you fucking perv.”

“Shame,” Placidus grins. “That would be hot. But mostly I just couldn’t help myself. Your cute little butt was right there.” He pulls on the elastic of Esca’s pushed-down boxers, letting it snap right against the crease of his ass.

“Fuck’s sake, just get on with it,” Esca groans, letting his head drop between his shoulders.

He can’t see Placidus no more, but he sure as hell can _feel_ him. Well, his dick, to be precise.

With one hand rubbing Esca’s arse—right where it still tingles from the spank—Esca can feel something wet smear between his cheeks, which involuntarily clench.

Trepidation tastes like salt in his mouth, and Esca closes his eyes, willing himself not to be such a fucking pussy about this.

“Hey,” Placidus says, still dragging his dick up and down. “Relax. I’m not actually going to fuck you, you know.”

Esca opens his eyes. “You’re not?”

“God, no. I want you to actually like this, okay?” Placidus tightens his hand, the one on Esca’s arse, and pulls it aside, letting cool air breeze over his damp cleft. Esca feels something blunt and wet press in, right where his asshole is. “Though I won’t lie, you’d feel so, fucking amazing.”

Esca’s heart is in his throat. If Placidus just pushed—just a little bit hard, hard enough to get that thing inside him—he’d be _inside_ him, holy Jesus fucking Christ. The pressure is still there, Placidus circling his dick in tiny, little ministrations, like he’s worming himself in.

Shit. Esca’s not scared—he’ll let him, yeah? But Placidus is—s‘just that he’s fucking _big_ —

A high-pitched noise escapes from Esca’s throat, surprising and embarrassing. “Sorry,” he says automatically, trying to calm himself down.

“Fuck, you’re so.” Placidus breathes in through his teeth, and Esca feels his dick slip so that he’s pointed up instead of in. “I wish we had more time. Another week, or something.”

He can’t think of anything to say back to that, so Esca moves his arms up and pillows his head in them, concentrating on the feeling of Placidus rutting against his arse. Now that the imminent threat of penetration has passed, he feels himself relax.

Loose-limbed and pleasantly drowsy from coming, Esca closes his eyes, arching his back a little for Placidus to get a better angle. Both hands are on his ass cheeks now, Placidus pushing them around his dick. He’s dry humping, Esca’s skin going a bit tender from all the chafing, but it seems to suit Placidus fine who’s worked himself into an unusual stretch of silence, but for the heavy breathing and periodic _fucks_ and _Gods_ which make Esca grin with self-satisfaction.

A cool drip of precum touches the plane of Esca’s lower back, drizzling down from Placidus’ frenzied rocking. It won’t be long now.

“Esca,” Placidus groans, leaning his forehead against the back of Esca’s neck. It’s damp, and Placidus’ hair tickles. The drape of his shirt, forgotten until now, is cool with sweat against Esca’s back.

He wants it off—wants to _get_ him off—and so Esca forces his arse into the air, giving Placidus something hard to rub against. It works like a charm, and before long, Placidus is biting Esca’s shoulder, muffling a whinge as he paints Esca’s lower back with warm stripes of come.

“Oh fuck,” Placidus groans mindlessly, which makes Esca flush with pride. He grinds back against Placidus’ still-jerking hips—

The door his to bedroom slams open, doorknob meeting plaster wall with a bone-rattling thwack as Esca startles. Whips his head around to see Marcus looming large in the doorway, his face stormy as he begins to stomp over.

“Hey—“ Placidus protests, but then Marcus hauls him off Esca’s back and smashes a fist into his face, effectively shutting him up.

“Shit,” Esca says, clambering up as he yanks his skivvies back over his arse, eyes huge when the boys tumble off the bed and onto the ground. “Marcus, _stop._ ”

Maybe he didn’t hear, _couldn’t_ hear—not over the sound of their messy brawling on the carpet—but Marcus ignores him. Still toffed up in his three-piece suit and shiny leather shoes, he makes an odd picture lurching astride Placidus’ thrashing body.

 _”Marcus!”_ Esca shouts, leaping over to help Placidus, who hasn’t got a chance. “Jesus Christ, he wasn’t—it wasn’t how it looked,” he pleads, pulling at Marcus’ shoulder. But Marcus is twice his size, and he ent budging. He’s frightening like this; far from bloodthirsty, Marcus looks focused and in control, only the maniacal glint in his eyes betraying any hint that he’s pounding Placidus into cornmeal.

“He was _forcing_ you,” Marcus growls, followed by another blunt sound, fist against muscle.

“For fuck’s sake, I _wanted it,_ Marcus!” Esca blurts, as he finally manages to pry him off. Slams Marcus against the dresser, mirror rattling against the wall above them.

Marcus glares, fierce and out of breath. Esca twists around and hisses to Placidus.

“Get _out of here.”_

The man hardly needs to be told twice. Placidus gets up and backs out of Esca’s door, tucking himself back in his trousers with an apologetic look in his eyes. Marcus bucks beneath Esca like he wants to go after him, but the curt backhand across the face keeps Marcus still. 

_”Stop it,”_ Esca commands, putting as much authority into his voice as he can. In the corridor, Placidus’ footsteps hurriedly fade as Marcus comes back to him, green eyes familiar once more as they warily blink at Esca.

“I don’t get it,” Marcus says, his voice punched out and strained. When his eyes trail down Esca’s body, he remembers he’s wearing nuffink but his skivvies and he’s covered in come. It pulls at his skin, tacky on his belly, his lower back. God, if he had a rock to crawl under right now.

“I—“ Marcus tries again. “I thought you were straight,” he says helplessly.

“I am,” Esca says on reflex. But shit, he’s being unclear—realizes that when Marcus’ face sharpens in anger once more. “I mean…sort of. I like birds. But sometimes I like blokes too. I suppose…all I really give a toss about is sex, like. If I’m having it or not.”

“Sex,” Marcus says dumbly. “And it doesn’t matter who with. You’ll do it with—fuck, you’ll have sex with _Placidus—_ “ Marcus stops himself, staring down as his ears start to go pink.

Esca suddenly notices where they are, sprawled on the carpet gap between Esca’s wooden dresser and bed. Esca in Marcus’ lap like a sodding dancer at a strip club, knuckles clenched tight in the fabric of Marcus’ expensive jacket.

Under him, Marcus is tense. Vibrating, almost. Fuck, what if…what if he’s not okay with Esca tossing off with other blokes? Italians can be bloody conservative sometimes, can’t they? For fuck’s sake.

“Look, I’m sorry if you’re—“

Marcus surges forward, bashing their noses together.

 _“Ow,“_ Esca yelps, only to to have the noise swallowed by Marcus’ mouth.

A warm palm comes up to cradle the back of Esca’s head, and Marcus angles himself better, moving his lips so that they’re—oh Christ, what are they doing? They’re—

Jesus, they’re kissing.

Marcus is _kissing_ him.

Being drunk can’t make you hallucinate, can it?

“Mrrkss,” Esca mumbles, staring at Marcus’ face even though he’s too close and it makes his eyes cross. “Mrrks, st’pp.”

Marcus bumps his head against Esca’s dresser in his haste to pull back. “Shit,” he says breathlessly. “Sorry.”

Esca presses the back of his wrist against his lips, which are warm and wet. He asks Marcus with his eyes: _Wot the fuck?_

Marcus turns cagey, gaze skittering over everything but Esca. It’s futile, though—Esca can always get what he wants out of Marcus just by staring, and right now, even more than wanting another kiss? Esca wants an explanation. Fuck, he _needs_ one.

Like clockwork, Marcus peers up at Esca through dark lashes.

“And you call me the moron?” Marcus picks up, like they’ve been talking all this while. He pairs his words with a self-deprecating smile. Esca’s heart thumps.

Is he saying what Esca thinks he’s saying?

Feeling impulsive—or perhaps just drunk—Esca closes his eyes and leans in, pushing his mouth against Marcus’. Momentum knocks Marcus’ head against the dresser once more, but he’s kissing back, holy _fuck._

It’s everything Esca imagined. Marcus’ mouth is plush and sensuous—sure in the way he moves, deliberately kissing Esca’s upper lip, then the lower, before delving in wholeheartedly. Esca moans, winding his arms around Marcus’ neck to anchor himself lest he lose himself completely, and when Marcus palms Esca’s waist and yanks him even closer—Esca’s nipples chafing against the fabric of Marcus’ suit—a hardness nudges up against Esca’s belly. When he realizes it ent his own erection, but Marcus’, he nearly blacks out.

Esca breaks away, panting. “Fuck, Marcus. I want it. I want you. For weeks. Fucking do me, already.”

 _“Esca,”_ Marcus says hoarsely. Esca could get used to the sound of his name like that, syllables dragged over a grater.

Esca rolls his hips and attacks the side of Marcus’ neck, sucking hard right over the spot Cottia had marked with lipstick. It tastes faintly like grease, a little salty. It’s not bad, and Esca laves the spot with his tongue until it just tastes like spit. Marcus rocks up beneath him and Esca rides the swell, ecstatic.

“Yeah,” Esca sighs, burrowing his face into the crook of his own shoulder, arms still tight around Marcus’ neck. He’s tingling all over, skin buzzing with the pleasant numbness of too much whisky but still he can feel Marcus’ hands roaming everywhere. They sweep down Esca’s shoulder blades and palm the sides of his ribs. His hands are huge; Marcus could crack him open, just like that.

“ _Fuck,_ Marcus.”

In response, Marcus shoves his nose under Esca’s ear and sucks a tight, hard hickey over his jumping pulse. It stings, quick and sharp, making Esca squirm in Marcus’ lap.

Marcus groans, the rawness of it making Esca’s head spin. Suddenly, all he can feel is Marcus’ cock through his trousers—a thick, heavy presence against Esca’s front, counterpoint to the gentle hands trailing down Esca’s spine.

“Marcus,” Esca gasps. “I want—for fuck’s sake, Marcus. I _want_ you—“

Marcus’ hands freeze, just the tips of his fingertips touching Esca’s lower back. “Don’t stop,” Esca whines, out of his mind. “Fucking hell, Marcus. Don’t fucking stop.”

“This. This is a bad idea,” Marcus stutters suddenly, pushing Esca off his lap.

Esca’s skinny shoulders collide with the side of his bed, jolting him. Fuck, he’d thought—Marcus was kissing him back, wasn’t he?

“What is it?” Esca eventually asks, heart in his throat. Horror creeps into the pit of his stomach, empty and snatching. 

Marcus climbs to his feet, palming the corner of Esca’s dresser to stand at full height. His dick is still hard, tenting out from dark grey trousers. 

“I don’t understand,” Esca says, when the silence becomes unbearable. Marcus is no help; he simply looks at him, uncertain, like _Esca’s_ the one who stopped a good thing, yeah?

Esca snags his shirt from where it’s lying in a crumpled ball on the floor and clambers to his feet, pulling it on. The room lurches and Esca stumbles back, relieved when the mattress catches his arse instead of the fucking ground, cos that’d be right bloody embarrassing. He reclines on his hands, shoulders jammed up against his ears as he sends Marcus a baleful look. 

“I won’t tell anyone your dirty secret, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he accuses.

“Fuck, Esca,” Marcus says heavily, scrubbing his forehead with the back of his hand. “That’s not it. I…I want this. But it’s just—fuck, you’re covered in, you know.” Marcus touches his forefinger to his thumb a few times, and Esca can see his sticky fingers. He can feel how his back is painted up and down with Placidus’ come, gluing his t-shirt to his skin. “And you’re drunk. You are _so_ drunk.”

“No, I’m not,” Esca counters, but the point’s lost when his hand slips out from under him and he jerks to stay upright.

A warm look enters Marcus’ eyes—amused and fond, if disappointed.

Esca glares at him. “Well, I’m not gonna beg for it, yeah? So get out if you’re gonna go.”

Marcus’ eyes sharpen with something unnameable. He comes back across the room, Esca’s heart lurching with hope when Marcus bends down to place a soft, deliberate kiss on his lips. But that’s all he gets, even when Esca reaches up and tugs on Marcus’ jacket lapels, anchoring him in place.

“Esca,” Marcus chides quietly, lips moving against his before pulling back. Leans his forehead against Esca’s, who tries to chase another kiss. But Marcus shakes his head.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he murmurs.

“You can see me now,” Esca insists, cos Marcus’ proximity is making him dumb and needy and _fuck,_ he wants.

“Not sure I want to,” Marcus teases. “You smell pretty ripe. And I have standards to keep up.”

Esca snorts. “Whatever, I’ll just call Lassie back in ‘ere.”

Marcus tenses immediately, then tackles Esca with a possessive, thorough kiss that pushes them both horizontal. Esca’s eyes flutter shut, making a note to himself to bring up Placidus more often. Behind his eyelids, the ceiling spins and he ent sure if it’s from the booze or lack of oxygen.

Marcus travels down Esca’s jaw, nipping at his chin before burying his face against his neck to growl, “You’re lucky I don’t kill that fucker.” And shit, that shouldn’t be hot. Murderous intent should never be hot, but Jesus fucking Christ it _is_.

“I was taking the piss,” Esca says weakly as Marcus ravages his neck, the high slope of his shoulder. It’s gonna be fucking mess tomorrow, and Esca’s so bloody turned on at the idea.

“But if you want to make sure, you should stay,” Esca says, humping up against Marcus’ erection. “Fucking hell, Marcus. Just bloody _stay._ ”

It gets the opposite reaction he wants. Esca can feel his face fall when Marcus extricates himself, getting off the bed and dusting off his thighs.

“Lord knows I want to,” Marcus says ruefully. “But you need to sleep on it. I’ll be here in the morning.”

“Ugh,” Esca complains, covering his face with his hands. “I’m offering you sex. You’re bloody mental not to want sex.”

When Esca peeks through his fingers, he sees Marcus letting himself out the door.

“It’s not just sex,” he says, so quiet Esca almost misses it. Then he shuts the door behind himself.

Esca slowly draws his hands away, settling them at his sides. He can feel his face warm as a strange mix of panic, disbelief, and elation fight for dominance inside him. 

Through their shared wall, Esca can hear the muffled noises of Marcus readying for bed. It’s familiar; comforting. Enough so that eventually Esca rolls onto his side, facing Marcus’ room, and simply listens.

The long day catches up to him then, an anvil sinking on Esca’s shoulders. He drops into the heavy, dosed slumber of the well and truly exhausted.

\-----

Esca wakes. It’s early, he can feel it. He feels like shit, his brain throbbing behind his eyeballs. He’s really fucking thirsty.

When he curls up to a sitting position, his shirt stays plastered to his back like a second skin. Oh yeah—that. That’s really fucking gross. 

Esca mashes his eyes with the heels of his hands in efforts to rouse himself, then swings his legs out of bed and steals away into the dark, silent corridor in the direction of the bathroom.

A long shower always feels amazing when he’s hung over, and as Esca stands under the spray—water turned just this side of too hot—he feels himself slowly return to the land of the living.

The night’s events float back to him like a dream. Fuck, he’d been so…so _shameless_ with both Placidus and Marcus, and while Esca refuses to regret any of it he’s still embarrassed enough about the whole thing he could drown himself in the shower.

But then he wouldn’t get to see Marcus.

Jesus. _Marcus._

Esca shuts off the tap with a metallic squeal.

Toweling his hair dry, it doesn’t cross Esca’s mind _not_ to go where his feet lead him next. He swings the damp cloth around his hips and holds it there as he bypasses his bedroom door and lets himself straight into Marcus’ room.

Eyes adjusting, the streetlight that filters in between the blinds is enough for Esca to make out Marcus’ sleeping form beneath the covers. Esca navigates errant trainers and textbooks, whispering, “Marcus.”

He hitches the towel up on his hips as he approaches the bed. No reaction, which is expected. A cursory glance at the digital clock reveals it’s only five in the morning. 

He shouldn’t be here.

But the air is cold against his damp, drying skin, and that’s all the reason Esca needs to pull back a corner of Marcus’ sheets and slide inside.

Marcus snuffles, recoiling instinctively from the chill Esca brings in. In contrast, Marcus feels hot, like pavement baked in the sun. Doesn’t seem fair for him to hoard it all.

“Cold,” Esca mumbles, curling himself into a ball and shoving his feet beneath Marcus’ thigh.

Marcus freezes, but he doesn’t move away. “Esca?” he asks, sounding confused.

“Yeah,” he replies, too drowsy to add more. Just burrows against Marcus’ sleep-warm body, enjoying the scent of Lenor dryer sheets that greets his nose. He’s glad he sneaks extra fabric softener in Marcus’ laundry, now. His clothes feel so nice.

“What are you doing?” Marcus asks, and the arm he slips around Esca seems like an unconscious move.

“You said sleep on it. So I slept on it,” Esca explains. “You can’t say no, now.”

Marcus shifts up on one elbow and blinks at Esca. “What time is it?”

Time to kiss. Time to fuck.

For fuck’s sake, time for them to fucking _do it_ already.

Esca reaches beneath the covers and shoves the towel off his hips.

“Esca?” Marcus says, sounding choked. Maybe it’s cos Esca’s wormed his way into Marcus’ arms, naked as a babe, and started mouthing at the base of his throat.

“Shu’up,” Esc murmurs, licking. 

“Hold on—“

“Seriously, Marcus.” Esca runs the edge of his teeth across Marcus’ collarbone, displeased when he tastes cotton t-shirt. He asks, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice, “Can’t we have this yet?”

Marcus freezes, fingers light on Esca’s bare arms. Esca’s heart is somewhere near his throat. Fuck, he thought he’d learned to stop putting himself in this position, vulnerable and open. It’s a horrible feeling, like free-falling. He’s allowing Marcus _everything._

Just when he thinks he’s made a horrible mistake, Marcus drags Esca back against his chest and kisses his face. Not sure where he was aiming—it’s five in the bloody morning, in his defence. But it feels amazing anyway.

“Yeah,” Marcus says in his ear, rough like sandpaper. “Okay.”

Esca’s eyes flutter shut, and he’s given over to the feeling of Marcus’ hands tightening on his biceps. It’s short warning before Marcus nudges Esca’s face with his own, tipping them up so that their mouths align. Marcus tastes like morning breath, but Esca could give a flying fuck. Just licks his way inside, possessive.

It’s all instinct from there on. What feels right. Like a heat-seeking missile, Esca chases with increasing focus. He’s waking up, body electric with every low-rumbling groan Marcus makes. He’s shutting down, Esca’s brain retreating like the tide.

It’s nothing like with Placidus. Feels nice like before, but he’s _here_ this time. This is Esca MacCunoval, hard and aching against Marcus’ thigh. This is Marcus Aquila, nudging Esca off just enough to yank his shirt over his head, to kick his boxers off his feet.

“Come here,” Marcus says, and now they’re skin-against-skin. Everything feels heightened: the burn of Marcus’ short stubble. The coarse hair on his legs, the smoothness of Marcus’ torso, which Esca keeps running his hands over, greedy-like.

They’re both turned on as Esca sucks on every bit of Marcus he finds, whether it’s his neck or each of his dark nipples. All the while, Esca lazily thrusts, pleased at the silky slide of their cocks rubbing together.

“Esca,” Marcus gasps, alerting him to the fact Esca’s beginning to leak. He might be embarrassed, but then Marcus roughly grabs his arse and grinds their hips together, so.

“Fuck,” Esca swears, humping back like a madman. “Fuck’s sake, you can’t just—“

“Can’t what?” Marcus smiles, licking his thumb all innocent like he’s just catching ice cream. Then he reaches down and smears the tip of Esca’s dick, slick with precum.

“ _Jesus—_ “ Esca squeezes his eyes shut and breathes noisily through his mouth. “You fucker.”

“Yeah?” Marcus asks huskily. “You want that?”

“Want what?” Esca’s mindless. He doesn’t know what Marcus is on about.

He rolls Esca over like he weighs nuffink. Esca would protest or summat, but then Marcus is blanketing him, heavy and warm like the sun.

His lips brush up against Esca’s ear, and it almost tickles, makes him shudder.

“You want me to fuck you?”

Jesus Christ. Esca blinks a bit, not sure he’s heard right. But Marcus is looking back with an entirely serious expression.

It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it. Or fingered himself while tossing off before. Cos he has. 

(A lot.)

The thought of Marcus—beautiful, earnest, and bloody daft-as-fuck _Marcus_ —fucking him? Hard and unforgiving, the way Esca knows Marcus can be when he thinks someone can take it?

“Esca?” Marcus asks, and his voice is less confident.

“Aye,” Esca quickly says, reaching up and holding Marcus at the back of his neck. Makes sure those green eyes are locked on his, cos he wants Marcus to have no doubts, none. “I want it.”

He doesn’t necessarily mean right that second, but quick as you please Marcus ducks underneath the twisted-up coverlet. Esca’s got to rely on touch to know what Marcus is doing down there, but—Jesus _fuck_ —with a warm grip wrapped around his shaft and the wet, insistent rub against the head of his dick, it’s pretty obvious.

Wishes he could see it, Marcus’ full lips going down on him. He could compare it to his fantasies then, although his fantasies never quite covered how much suction Marcus would use, like he’s trying to hoover Esca down his throat. Or how much Marcus would drool, Esca’s balls getting wet.

“Marcus,” Esca says, panic alighting when he realizes how he’s close already. Fuck, it hasn’t even been five minutes yet.

Esca drops his arm over his eyes and starts twisting his hips, trying to shake Marcus off. Instead, Marcus just makes a muffled, choked sound and rubs at Esca’s perineum, which is slippery with spit and precum.

“ _Fuck—“_

Marcus pushes a finger into Esca’s arse, blunt and dry. It feels weird, and it’s enough to stave Esca from orgasm.

“God, Marcus,” Esca says, biting his lower lip. “A little warning?”

Marcus pulls off Esca’s dick with an obscene sort of slurp, then shoves the covers off so that his bed-head comes into view.

Marcus’ cheeks are red, and his lips—fuck. Esca has to close his eyes at the sight.

“Sorry,” Marcus says, but clearly he’s not cos he’s trying to worm a second finger in.

“For fuck’s sake,” Esca grumps, reaching down to tug at Marcus’ hand—wincing at the sensation of his finger exiting, cos that’s _seriously_ weird—and holds up Marcus’ hand eye-level.

Esca sucks two of Marcus’ clean fingers into his mouth, the middle and ring. Wets them nice and proper, like when he’s doing it to himself.

“Fuck. You look.” Marcus licks his lower lip, which is plump and red. “Um.”

Esca smiles around Marcus’ fingers, then pulls off with a slick pop. “Try again.”

Marcus grins back, then gets back down between Esca’s legs with a quick kiss to the inside of one thigh. “Tell me if it hurts,” he says, and Esca just kicks him with his heel like he’s spurring a horse on.

It’s better now, lubed with spit. Marcus adds more, licking around Esca’s hole which—hm, unexpectedly hot. One finger becomes two becomes wriggling, twisting, then slow, confident pumping.

This is better. This Esca can get used to. He shuts his eyes and tries to relax, lets himself imagine it’s Marcus’ dick going in and out of him. Force of habit. Then he remembers that it actually _can_ be Marcus’ dick, and that starts him off anew.

“Come on,” Esca gasps, hips thrusting down against Marcus’ fingers. “Enough already. Fuck me. Don’t make me wait any longer.”

It’s all the urging Marcus needs. As soon as Esca feels Marcus withdraw, he flips over and presents his backside, pulling his cheeks apart like Marcus doesn’t know where his arsehole is. Just in case, yeah?

“Jesus Christ, Esca,” Marcus bites out, sounding wrecked. It makes Esca smiles into the pillow, giving him enough mirth not to panic when something nudges up against his hole. Feels like Marcus’ fingers, but bigger.

Wait. Shouldn’t there be like…condoms, or summat?

“Did you and Placidus…” Marcus asks tightly. “Were you safe?”

Esca looks over his shoulder, his eyes wide. “We didn’t,” he starts. Licks his lips. “Not that, I swear.”

The pinched look starts to leave Marcus’ face, and he sighs, visibly relaxing. “I’ve never, um. So I’m clean.”

Esca feels his heart thud. He can hear how thick his voice is when he responds, “Me too.”

The look Marcus gives him is too much. Hopeful, happy, and—God, he can’t even think it. Safe to say nobody looks at Esca this way.

Esca turns back around and buries his face in his arms. “Come _on,_ Marcus. You trying to give me blue balls, here?”

Esca hears Marcus spit, and then his dick is back where it’s supposed to be. But better because he’s pushing and Jesus fuck, Esca knew Marcus was big but he feels fucking _massive,_ like, not-physically-possible amounts of huge.

“God, you’re—“ Marcus chokes out. “Are you sure—“

“Yeah.” Esca cants his hips in encouragement, feeling the head of Marcus’ dick ease in. Hardest part over, right? “Yeah, come on. Keep going.”

Unfortunately, it just gets harder. Esca feels his erection flag the deeper Marcus goes, cos—all right, he’ll be honest, it’s still too dry and bloody well feels like Marcus is cleaving him in half with his cock.

Yet even more than wanting the pain to stop, Esca wants to give this to Marcus. He wants to make this work. And so he’s relieved that Marcus can’t see how Esca’s going soft and won’t know he’s half-faking when Esca pants heavily and moves backwards, getting more—Jesus, there’s _more?_ —of Marcus inside.

“Oh my God,” Marcus breathes, sounding incredulous. He huffs a little laugh. Esca hopes he hasn’t lost his marbles, but if so at least it’ll be cos Esca’s such a great lay. Totally worth it.

“This isn’t, um.” Marcus shoves that last bit inside, and Esca’s never been more glad to feel someone else’s balls swing against his own. Fuck. He’s so full he can barely breathe. Sounding like he’s having trouble as well, Marcus warns, “Isn’t going to last long.”

“Then come,” Esca begs. He squeezes his arse and rocks back and forth. It doesn’t really move Marcus’ cock in and out or nuffink, cos he’s bloody well plugged tight. What it does do, however, is make Marcus drop his forehead—a bit damp, his hair still soft—between Esca’s shoulder blades and come with a stuttering gasp.

Esca hides his face in his arms, feeling content, too happy to dare show it to the world. Marcus’ hips jerk against Esca’s arse, and his cock feels wetter inside of him, starting to drag in and out like it’s been greased.

He hits a spot—Jesus Christ, Esca shouts a bit from surprise. Holy shit, is that…is this why poufs like to fuck each other in the arse? He knew it was supposed to be good both ways, but wasn’t entirely sure that wasn’t a made-up story so gay blokes could still fuck each other.

“Oh God,” Marcus groans, sounding shattered. He’s draped all over Esca like dead weight, and Esca wants to pout a bit cos now, when it’s finally getting good? Marcus is out for the count.

Esca elbows Marcus off of him, making a face when his cock slips out. It drags come with it, Marcus’ dick sliding over the backs of Esca’s balls as Marcus pulls back, away from view.

“God,” Marcus repeats from behind, like it’s the only word he remembers how to say. Esca’s legs are starting to vibrate from having been up so long, but when he starts to buckle Marcus is there in an instant, big hands holding him up by the arse and thumbing his cheeks apart, like a gentleman.

“Oi,” Esca says, trying to send a glare backwards but Marcus avoids the look by dipping down and— _holy shit_ —sticking his tongue inside Esca’s arse.

Esca struggles to speak but succeeds only in making shocked noises that do nothing to cover the lewd sounds Marcus makes as he eats him out. The flat of Marcus’ tongue drags over Esca’s hole over and over again, his lips wrapping around Esca’s balls one at a time to clean them of come.

It’s too much. The thought of Marcus doing…what he’s _doing_. Esca ent some hardcore porno star, yeah? Jesus Christ he’s only a teenaged bloke.

“Shit,” Esca swears, then comes. He ent even touching himself, wouldn’t know he’d finished but for the liquid skimming across his lower belly. And when he collapses onto the bed, the covers are soaking wet.

Ears roaring, Esca needs a moment to come down from his high. But when he does, Marcus is there, next to him with a triumphant look on his face as he wipes his chin with the back of his hand. He looks like a moron.

“You look like a moron,” Esca mumbles.

“I’m okay with that,” Marcus acknowledges, flopping down. Then, quieter: “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

“What, lick someone’s arsehole? Bloody nasty, Marcus.”

“No,” Marcus counters. He moves onto his side and holds Esca’s gaze, unblinking as he says lowly, “Be inside you. Fill you up with my come, then watch it leak out.”

“Jesus Christ,” Esca breathes, feeling himself colour up. “Shut up.” Even his ears feel hot. Who knew Marcus was a kinky motherfucker?

Marcus grins, wide and brilliant before leaning in for a thorough kiss. And when Esca tastes Marcus, in every sense of the word—all right, yeah. His dick gives a bit of a twitch. Maybe Marcus is onto something.

\-----

They see Placidus off in the morning.

Beforehand, Esca warns Marcus to be on his best behaviour. But as they’re lined up outside the villa, Andrew keeping the car in neutral as Claudius Hiero climbs into the back, Esca doesn’t miss the way Marcus crushes Placidus’ hand in his grip, as if the black eye he gave him the night before wasn’t enough damage.

Uncle Aquila chuckles at the sight, for he may be a strange old man, but Esca suspects nothing actually gets past him.

“Might want to step in,” he suggests, jovially patting him on the back before disappearing back inside the villa. Esca looks over by the car; indeed, Placidus is trying to extricate his hand but Marcus won’t let him.

Esca sighs, walking over. “Marcus,” he says with a touch to the back of Marcus’ elbow. “That’s enough.”

Placidus shoots him a grateful look, especially when Marcus finally steps back. His eyes don’t waver, however; he’s still trying to set Placidus on fire with his glare.

Yet Lassie will always be Lassie. You give him an inch and he’ll take—well, he dances in and steals a kiss from Esca, right under Marcus’ flaring nose.

“I’ll always be your first,” he grins cheekily, before swinging himself into the backseat and slamming the door shut behind him.

“Tribune,” Marcus shouts angrily, loping after the car as it pulls out of the driveway. Esca laughs under his breath as he goes after him.

“Marcus,” he says, turning him around by the shoulder. “Marcus. Listen to me.”

“He’s a shitty, spineless little twerp—“

“Marcus.” Esca reaches up, holds his gaze. “Listen to me. You’re my first in anything that matters.” It’s the sappiest shite he’s ever said in his life before, so Esca follows it with a punch to Marcus’ chest.

Marcus grunts, but he’s smiling too so that’s good enough.


	7. Epilogue

Esca can’t stay at the Aquila’s forever. Especially not now, when he and Marcus are…whatever they are. Uncle might be all right with it, but Esca ent so sure how long he could stay on without Stephanos or the others treating him different.

He tells Marcus of his plans to move out by the end of the month and Marcus promptly freaks out. Not outright, of course; pretends like he’s totally okay with it, but Esca would have to be an idiot to miss how Marcus grows quiet and withdrawn over the next couple weeks, and no amount of kissing or reassurance can shake him of it.

\-----

He moves at the beginning of January.

Esca’s got his bags packed—actual bags of clothing and shit—and Marcus loads them into the backseat of his hatchback cos he’s driving Esca across the city to his new flat.

They come up to the modest street and Marcus pulls on the handbrake, shuts off the ignition.

He turns to Esca with wide, green eyes. Looks so young it makes Esca’s heart hurt.

“I need to give you something,” Marcus says seriously.

“I’m not moving out of the country, you dolt,” Esca says, trying to make Marcus smile. It doesn’t work though, and Esca feels his palms start to sweat. He doesn’t know what Marcus has planned. Really hopes it isn’t…well. Esca nervously scrubs his hands down the sides of his thighs.

Marcus reaches over and flips down the glove compartment, where something familiar and beloved drops onto his lap.

It’s his father’s dagger, still in the leather case.

Esca picks up it wonderingly. It’s not that he’s forgotten about it, cos fuck that, it’s the last surviving remnant of his childhood. He could never forget.

But he knew it was safe with Marcus, and so he’d…let it be.

“You’ll want it with you,” Marcus explains, his words awkward and overly formal. “Who knows how often we’ll be able to—“

“Marcus,” Esca interrupts. “Shut up.”

“What?”

Esca picks up the blade and presses a tight kiss to it, then plants it firmly into Marcus’ palm. He closes Marcus’ fingers over it and simply holds him there with two hands.

“Keep it. I’ll feel better if you do.”

Marcus’ mouth makes a small moue of surprise. It’s irresistible; Esca leans over the gear stick and kisses it.

“Unless you’re trying to break up with me,” he murmurs against Marcus’ lips, “Keep it.”

Instead of replying, Marcus sighs and returns Esca’s kiss, but with tongue. They haven’t talked about what it is they’re doing, or what they are yet, but this…this feels right. It feels like them. And when Esca finally pulls away, it’s only to cock a lopsided grin at him and say, “But if you lose the blade, I’ll end you.”

Marcus snorts disbelievingly and starts the car back up with a vibrating rumble. 

“Okay, shrimp.”

Esca sends him a two-fingered salute. Outside, he notices Liathan come out from front door of his new apartment building.

“Hey faggots, stop snogging on my father’s property!” he yells, striding over to the boot of the car and thumping it obnoxiously.

Esca checks Marcus’ expression, embarrassed by how horrible a human being his best friend is, but Marcus just pops open the boot and leans out the driver-side window, calling out, “You better get used to it, Rhona.”

Groaning inwardly, Esca lets himself out of the car only to get smacked by one of his heavier bags which he barely just catches.

“Perverts,” Liathan says, hefting Esca’s other bag over his shoulder. “You won’t get your security deposit back if I find any stains, all right?”

“Fuck off, bastard,” Esca says. Liathan shrugs and heads towards the blue door entrance, keys jangling.

Behind him, Marcus clears his throat. When Esca turns around, his naff face is blinking expectantly through the window.

“Wot?” Esca says, scratching his ear.

Marcus purses his mouth, which, wow. Really?

Heaving a world-weary sigh, Esca bends down and pecks him on the lips, feeling like a right tosser.

But when he pulls back, the soft smile on Marcus’ face makes him melt a bit. Jesus Christ, Esca deserves all the ribbing Liathan gives him.

“Can I drop by after PT?” Marcus asks.

“Yeah,” Esca grins, switching the duffel bag to his other shoulder. “Course.”

In the meantime, Esca will unpack his things with Liathan’s help. After dinner, Esca promised Sasstica he’d continue helping Rowan with his homework—“tutoring”, rather, since she’d insisted on pay—so he’s got that at seven, while the morning sees his first day at Mrs. Rhona’s spa cos Davina’s apparently his agent and won’t stop butting into Esca’s life. He loves her for it though, obviously. 

And after that? 

Who knows, after that.

Everything’s changing, and yet everything feels like it’s finally settling into shape. Good days or bad days, Esca’s good at taking them one at a time. He’s thankful for every friend he’s got, every minute he’s earned for himself—every smile Marcus sends his way and every sappy kiss and promise shared between them.

Marcus’ car disappears down the street and Esca shakes his head a bit, makes his way into the apartment. Any minute now, Lie-Lie’s gonna start bellowing at him like the belligerent arse he is, and Esca won’t promise he won’t kill him cos honestly, he’d be doing the entire world a favour, yeah?

So he hefts his bag on his shoulder and walks into his flat, humming under his breath.


End file.
